


Heaven By Violence

by Lulzy (likelolwhat)



Series: Heaven By Violence [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Canon Typical Violence, Ensemble Cast, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Gratuitous French Endearments, Grief/Mourning, Language, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Mental Instability, Mild canon divergence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Changes, POV Multiple, Pro-Mage Inquisitor, Rating May Change, Sided with Templars, Slow Burn, different pov each chapter, oh orlesians, snails faster than this slow burn, the divergence between this and canon gets wider and wider trust me, these tags are not mutually exclusive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2019-08-05 12:06:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16367489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelolwhat/pseuds/Lulzy
Summary: Irene Trevelyan has never known peace. For all her life she’s been the tempest — deadly, unpredictable, constantly moving. And just when she finds the one port in the storm that is her life, it’s torn away again in the same disaster that branded her a savior to the faithful.She’d be the first to tell you it should’ve been her who died and her husband who lived to become the Herald.





	1. Prologue - Maxwell

> _No walls_  
>  _Can keep me protected_  
>  _No sleep_  
>  _Nothing in between me and the rain_  
>  _And you can't save me now,_  
>  _I'm in the grip of a hurricane_  
>  _I'm gonna blow myself away_  
>  — “Hurricane Drunk”, Florence + the Machine

 

* * *

 

“Trevelyan!”

He jolted awake just as he had started to dream, the Fade creeping in as it always did, before the distant shout from the yard below startled it out.

Someone had called his name. His surname, which was odd, as no one ever called him that. It was always Maxwell, a perfectly inconspicuous address that did not immediately label him a scion of the most pure, most pious, most assuredly mage-free of all the noble houses in the Free Marches. It was dangerous, to call attention to Bann Trevelyan’s firstborn son. Everyone knew who he was, but no one acknowledged it.

He leaned out the window just as the call came again, louder. There was the caller, a tower of armor reflecting the midmorning sun…

Maxwell swore. What could he have possibly done to get the Knight-Captain’s attention? Unless his father finally decided to be done with him once and for all.

But then one of the recruits, a blond woman who had been working through her stances with a greatsword in the far corner of the busy training yard, jogged over and saluted.

And Maxwell had the rare experience of simultaneous relief and horror.

By that night he had exchanged all his outstanding favors. Information, the currency of choice in the Circles, was scarce. Her name was Irene, and she was trueborn, or acknowledged as such. Why the Order retained her at Ostwick remained a mystery, as did the pressing issues of when she would graduate to full templar and where they would assign her when she did.

It wasn’t like he could do anything anyway. If they wanted his little sister breathing down his neck in the library, or whatever else, he’d just have to arm himself with his only available weapon: Knowledge.

They intercepted him on his way back to the dorms within the month.

It was one of the few times Maxwell was looking forward to his bed, and the cold embrace of the Fade. His eyes hurt from reading potion bottles all afternoon and evening. Perhaps this made him slow, made him mistake the thump of metal boots coming straight for him for something innocent, something normal.

“Maxwell Trevelyan?”

Everyone knew who he was, but no one acknowledged it.

A Templar would not have to ask.

He did not realize this, though, until he had dutifully started to follow them back down the hall, the two recruits wearing the armor they’d just been given that very afternoon.

And he did not truly realize what he had gotten himself into until some time later, trapped in a dusty old classroom with five Templars celebrating their promotions to full duty, one of whom was his sister. She’d heard of him too, and she’d just been curious. At first.

He’d been locked away in a Circle most of his life, and the entirety of hers. He did not have the sense to run when the bottle, dark and unlabeled, was brought out. He could have at least attempted to make his excuses when she upended it and drank deep, throat bobbing with each long pull until the bottle was half-gone.

How was he to know? She was his sister. Some part of him, not yet hardened by this place, believed that alone was enough.


	2. Cassandra

> _Go get lost where no one can be found_  
>  _Drink so long and deep until you drown_  
>  _Say your goodbyes but darlin' if you please_  
>  _Don't go without me_  
>  — “C’est la Mort”, The Civil Wars

 

* * *

 

The prisoner says nothing during the interrogation, but her face speaks for her: she stills, brows furrowed, throat bobbing, before her expression crumples as grief takes over. She says nothing until they get outside the Chantry and her eyes are drawn up, up, to the whirling maelstrom that is the Breach. Cassandra does not miss the way relief joins the myriad of emotions flitting across her scar-lined face — she’s certainly not skilled at hiding her feelings — before the mark on her hand pulses and she crashes down with a gasp.

“I didn’t kill my own husband,” she says finally, when the pulses have stopped and her breaths return. Her tone is defensive, but then, softer, before Cassandra can reply, “I didn’t kill him…”

Cassandra reaches down, helps her up because she looks lost, sitting in the snow, and it’s a strange look on such a woman. “You thought you did?”

“I don’t remember anything,” she says. “It’s different from— I thought I must have done something, for this thing to be on my hand, but I’m not… not capable of _that_!” She gestures at the sky with her bound wrists.

They will see about that. Cassandra leads her toward the gates of the little village, their Haven from the valley beyond. The townsfolk watch them carefully, mistrust and open hatred on every face. The Seeker can’t say she doesn’t understand. She is not yet ready to throw aside her judgment, either, but the arguments in her head are cracking, crumbling. Her instincts are generally reliable, and they say this warrior is no Orlesian actress. What if the culprit died in the explosion, or escaped somehow? Will this all be for naught? “And your husband?” she asks.

The prisoner stops in her tracks, staring at Cassandra. “No. He—” She shuts her mouth with a click of her teeth. “No.”

“Hmph.” She’d come back to that later. “Regardless, we must stop this Breach before it takes over the entire sky. Every hour, it grows. We have a theory, but we must test it on one of the smaller rifts, first.” She tugs her forward again, but the prisoner seems to rally to the goal and lengthens her strides, not only keeping up with Cassandra but almost out-pacing her. Maker, but she is tall.

“I understand.” A chill wind blows from the mountains, whipping her long blond hair out behind her. “If there is any way to find out what happened, who— who did this, I will help. Whatever it takes.”

“Good.” Cassandra can’t sense any deceit from her, and they may be attacked at any moment, so she cuts the prisoner’s bonds and _prays_.

~o~O~o~

Solas and Varric look expectant after introducing themselves to the prisoner, and that is when Cassandra realizes she still doesn’t know her name. One rift down, many more to go, and they’re already hustling up the valley again, making for the forward camp.

The woman has been examining at her left hand with a faint look of disgust, but she looks up after the pause has stretched on an uncomfortable while and says, short and sharp, “Irene.”

“Irene?” Varric repeats, fishing for a last name. Cassandra does not find it subtle at all, though surely the dwarf thinks so.

“Irene.”

Solas cocks his head. “That means ‘peace’ in one of the ancient Tevinter dialects, does it not? I do hope it proves prophecy.”

Irene scowls and walks faster, forcing Varric to break into a jog to keep pace. “It hasn’t so far.”

Cassandra is inclined to agree with her. The forward camp isn’t far, and the Breach not much more than that. The demons rain down faster the closer they get, but the prisoner — Irene — wields the greatsword she has picked up with deadly efficiency, and doesn’t seem to tire. She is feeding off her own rage and single-minded focus, that much is obvious. Cassandra wonders how long it will take before it runs out.

Irene climbs the treacherous mountain paths like she was born to it: a mountain goat in the form of a woman, or a spirit of Perseverance. Cassandra never thought she would regret her Seeker armor, but it weighs her down as she follows in Irene’s tracks through the snow. Solas appears unaffected by the cold trek — probably some magic, it wouldn’t surprise her in the least — but she and Varric are already straining by the time they reach the gate to the forward camp. Varric rather more vocally.

There’s another rift there, hovering before the gate, but it goes down quicker even than the first. The soldiers here are a great deal friendlier than the folk of Haven, saluting Cassandra and watching Irene with more hope than fear, though they, too, know who she is. A few of them may even have seen her emerge from the Fade, or helped carry her down the mountain. The marked woman stalks across the bridge, ignoring these stares as easily as she ignored the others.

Cassandra curls her lip when she sees who Leliana is arguing with. Roderick, who she has met once before in Haven. The toad. Irene seems to take an instant disliking of him, too, growling at him like a bear at every accusation. She is even more enraged by him than Cassandra herself, but to the Seeker’s relief she refrains from laying him flat with a punch to the face. No matter how much either woman wants to, it’s not the best course of action right now.

Irene doesn’t even entertain Leliana’s suggestion of taking the safer side route, but charges up the mountain. Varric has stopped his complaints, mostly focusing on his breathing.

And then they are there, what remains of the Temple just a few paces away. There’s yet another rift just before the drop-off to the crater, and Cassandra spots Commander Cullen among the few soldiers left battling the horde of demons. They charge in, and Irene closes her third rift with the same brutal efficiency with which she had slaughtered the terror demon that came from it.

She stalks past the Commander when he hails her. Cassandra shrugs at him. The closer they are, the more focused she is, and the Seeker is content to let her lead for the moment.

“Is that…?” Cullen asks, though he has already seen her, when she stumbled out of the Fade and in the dungeons of Haven’s Chantry before he moved up here to battle demons. Cassandra doesn’t blame him though. Awake, thrumming with furious energy, she seems like a completely different person.

“Irene. Wouldn’t give a last name. I’ll tell you more later, if there is a later.”

“We’ll buy you as much time as we can, Lady Cassandra,” he says, eying Irene’s back where she stands on the edge of the devastation. It’s just a short jump down to the scar in the earth where the Temple of Sacred Ashes once stood. Where the Divine, her Divine, was murdered.

Solas and Varric have come to flank Irene, also looking on the site up close for the first time, and the dwarf mutters something about ‘the big one’. He and Solas turn to look when Cassandra approaches, but the prisoner is frozen for once, hugging herself in the chill wind. She finally lets out a shuddering sigh, dropping her marked hand to her side and clenching it into a fist.

“Let’s go.”

~o~O~o~

“Someone, help me!”

“What are you doing? Stop!”

The voice that answers Divine Justinia’s echoing plea isn’t Irene’s. It isn’t anyone Cassandra knows — but it is someone Irene knows. She gasps, staggering back before surging forward again, sprinting for the railing and hurling herself over the edge, into the crater.

“Andraste’s golden knickers,” Varric says, looking for a safer way down. It winds around the outside, past enormous crystals the color of liquid blood that make the fine hairs on the back of Cassandra’s neck stand on end. _Red lyrium,_ Varric supplies, and though she hears none of the infamous song as she inches around, just the presence of the madness-inducing substance still gives her the chills. The crater smells of lightning and burnt flesh, so strong it makes her dizzy.

By the time they catch up to Irene, she’s standing almost directly beneath the Breach, looking up at the faded image-echoes of the Divine, her captor — a mass of shadows with flames for eyes — and the man who stumbles in on the sacrifice. He’s soft-bodied and sweet-faced, a mage by his robes and the staff on his back, which he unhooks when he sees the bound Divine.

“We have an intruder, a traitor to his kind,” the shadow says, turning its fiery gaze to the mage.

“Colm, husband, where are you going—” Another voice, recognizable as Irene’s though it has a hint of laughter in it. She slides to a stop a pace behind the mage, and only then realizes what she has come upon.

“Kill them both. Now!” The shadows reach out, knocking the mage aside. He lands in a crumpled heap against the wall, staff broken in two.

A flash of that sickly green Fade-light, and the echo is gone.

Cassandra shields her eyes, mind working as to what it means even as she realizes Irene — the flesh-and-blood Irene who charged up here — has disappeared. She looks around frantically and spots her, kneeling over a charred skeleton with a broken staff — _oh_. Irene is wailing, hands in her hair, tearing out what little remains of her braid that survived the journey up here and leaving blonde strands scattered on the ashen ground.

Solas hangs back, looking sympathetic but uncomfortable, but Varric is striding forward before Cassandra can, crouching beside Irene and saying gently, “Stormy?”

It takes a beat for Cassandra to realize it’s one of the dwarf’s nicknames, and a strangely appropriate one, if not quite right to say out loud now. But Irene doesn’t know about his habit yet, and it shocks her just enough for her to turn to him. He barrels forward. “I wish we had the time, I really do. But we need your help to get this thing gone. In fact, you’re the only one who can do it. Will you help us? I promise I will keep the Seeker and everyone else from bothering you, after.” He throws a pointed look at her over his shoulder.

Irene glances back too, nods sharply even as the tears dry on her face. It is a strange thing, this turn she takes. But Cassandra thinks she understands. Rage is more familiar, more welcome, than confusion or grief. Here is an emotion Irene can channel into action.

And she does. She rises sharply, thrusts her hand up and the closed rift screeches as it is ripped back open.

The massive pride demon that emerges doesn’t faze her, nor do the multiple shades that come with it. Irene whirls through the battlefield, greatsword arcing deadly and radiant to cut shades in half and slash the pride demon’s scaled legs. Ichor splatters across the field. It laughs, lightning whip snapping at the scouts on the rim of the crater. Cassandra grits her teeth and hacks at the demon’s ankles, gaining its attention but not injuring it in the least.

Solas is the one who figures out how to weaken it, yelling at Irene over the demon’s booming laughter to use her mark to disrupt the rift. She is interrupted several times, but Cassandra manages to distract it long enough for Irene to channel the strange magic and destroy the demon’s guard. Irene’s swings bite deep, then.

The fight is long, and bloody, and Cassandra’s shield is badly dented by the end of it, but at last Leliana is the one to bring it down, shooting an arrow from across the ruins straight into one of its eyes. It wobbles, collapses, shaking the earth and nearly crushing a scout, who leaps back just in time.

Immediately Irene is whirling to close the rift, greatsword slipping from her hands. The shockwave staggers them all, but it affects Irene the most: she is flung back, landing hard and skidding along the ground, stopping by Solas’ feet with a groan.

He kneels to check her vitals, long fingers skimming over her pulse point and her temples. “She’s unconscious. That took a lot of energy from her,” he says to no one in particular.

Cassandra nods and looks up at the Breach. It has stopped growing and spitting out demons, but the tear remains, a long open wound oozing Fade magic. She wonders how many rifts came from it while it was active, and shakes her head. “Take her back down to Haven. We’ll need more power to get this thing out of the sky for good.”

_Power_. Rebel mages or templars. Each might work, but neither would speak to them yet. She is getting ahead of herself again, and unlike Leliana’s machinations, she’s no good at it.


	3. Cullen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that this is a slow burn; glacial, after a fashion. Irene is freshly widowed, after all.

> _How deeply are you sleeping or are you still awake?_  
>  _A good friend told me you've been staying out so late_  
>  _Be careful, oh, my darling, oh, be careful what it takes_  
>  _From what I've seen so far, the good ones always seem to break_  
>  — “Sky Full of Song”, Florence + the Machine

 

* * *

 

The prisoner is unconscious, borne on a stretcher by the scouts, and the whispers have already begun. Herald of Andraste. Chosen of the Maker.

He wants it to be true. She’s something like the statues. Statuesque, at least: all hard lines and muscle. A warrior. But Andraste is depicted as beautiful, and she is… not. And that mark on her hand, while no longer flaring every few seconds, makes him uneasy. What would his reaction have been had the prisoner — _survivor, must think of her as the survivor_ — been a mage? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

They take her down to Haven, and Josephine secures a cabin and servant for her. Well, really: most everyone is clamoring to accommodate the Herald, and the servant is beside herself with pride when she is chosen.

They wait, again, for her to wake up. In the meantime he and Josephine are brought up to date, and Leliana finally hits a lead on the identity of the survivor. She’s from Ostwick, a daughter of Bann Trevelyan. How she ended up with a mage husband, who he was, and what they were doing at the Conclave remains a mystery. Josephine advises against contacting the Trevelyans without Irene’s permission. In any case, she says, the House will find out soon enough. Word is spreading, though they have yet to formally announce the reborn Inquisition. They don’t even know if Irene will pledge herself to it; Cassandra said she had earlier, but Irene hadn’t known what she was getting into then.

Cullen hadn’t, either, when Cassandra recruited him. Before the Conclave blew up and an Inquisition proved necessary in the first place. Perhaps the Divine had some kind of foresight, to leave her directive with her Hands instead of placing all hope on the Conclave.

~o~O~o~

Cullen isn’t there when she wakes, but in the afternoon of the first day of the fledgling Inquisition, he’s finally summoned up to their makeshift war room for the first meeting including Irene. He is apprehensive. She had fought fiercely at the smaller rift, but brushed him off afterward. Cassandra’s report indicates she thrives on anger. He fears she is single-minded by nature, and not the leader the Inquisition needs. Perhaps, even, another Meredith. The thought coils low in the back of his head, nesting in with yet another headache.

Cassandra enters first, followed by the Herald. The blacksmith has crafted new armor for her, and the chainmail rustles as she walks. She’s… tired. Careworn. Her blond hair is neatly braided down her back and her face is freshly washed, but the skin is bright red and irritated from scrubbing too hard. He knows the feeling.

“Here we are,” Cassandra says, closing the door behind them.

Irene flinches when the door thuds gently into place. It takes a moment for her to force her stance to relax, though tension remains bunched in her shoulders and jaw.

“Before we begin, let me introduce the advisors to the Inquisition,” Cassandra says. Irene focuses on the Seeker, but she watches everyone else, especially _him_ , in her periphery. He realizes he is resting his hands on his pommel again, and deliberately lets his arms fall to his sides. She relaxes only a fraction.

“Commander Cullen, who you met briefly on the way to the Breach.”

Her eyebrows knit together. He is not surprised she wouldn’t remember; it wasn’t even a meeting worthy to be called such. Nevertheless he says, “Only for a moment. I’m pleased you survived.”

She looks at him carefully, and Cullen can only determine it’s not anger or hatred, at least. That’s a start. Her gaze flits away when Josephine and Leliana are introduced, and he feels her attention leave like it had been a weight across his shoulders he hadn’t even known was there. She scrutinizes them, as well, and nods sharply when Cassandra is done. “All right. I guess you have questions for me.”

“What makes you think I haven’t already found everything there is to know?” Leliana asks mildly, and Cullen rolls his eyes.

Irene snorts. “If you did, we wouldn’t be talking, _Spymaster_. You would’ve made assumptions, correct or not, and we wouldn’t be nearly so friendly now.” She pauses long enough for Cullen’s mind to make up a half-dozen theories — Agent? Fugitive? Thrall to a bloodmage husband? — before continuing. “Ask your questions. I will answer, or I won’t. I am no master of the Game.” Her tone is resigned, but her posture thrums with agitation. She holds her head high, staring straight ahead.

Leliana clears her throat, putting on her neutral mask quickly but not so quickly Cullen misses her unease. It comforts him that even the Sister finds Irene unsettling. “Very well,” she says. “Where are you from?”

Irene scowls. “Ostwick, Free Marches. Bann Trevelyan’s fourth daughter. Don’t look surprised, it’s insulting.”

Josephine coughs politely. “Yes, I apologize. Leliana likes to start with questions she already knows the answer to.”

“Josie!” she protests, even as Irene huffs and says, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what—” Cassandra starts.

“I know I don’t look or act like a Lady Trevelyan. I don’t want to. My father is a spineless hypocrite and my siblings are worthless yes-men. They are my relatives, but they are not my family. You can be the most stereotypical, Light-chanting noble and still be trash. And you can spend your whole life trying to get away from titles and still have them come back to bite you in the ass.” She shifts, mouth clicking shut. She seems to have surprised herself with her own vehemence on the matter.

Josephine is frantically scribbling a note on the little board she carries everywhere, and Cullen can only hope it involves never, ever calling the Herald Lady Trevelyan to her face, as she has been doing in private since Leliana dug up the information two days ago. _Probably not ‘Herald of Andraste’, either_.

Cassandra and Leliana share a look, and the Seeker says, “What were you doing at the Conclave?”

Something flickers in Irene’s eyes, and she swallows hard. The anger bleeds out, but not the tension. It takes a moment for her to gather herself. “I was only there because Colm was there. We were looking for his brother. We had heard rumors he was in the mage delegation, but… I don’t remember whether we found him or not.”

“What _do_ you remember?” Cullen asks, though he suspects Leliana wants to get to Colm’s identity first. That was her and Cassandra’s most pressing question, but Cullen doesn’t want to step into that nest of vipers yet.

Irene turns to him, eyes going unfocused while she searches her memory. “I remember… the sky, the night before. It was cold and clear, and Colm was talking about how the stars were different in the south. Then…” She growls and shakes her head, braid whipping back and forth. “Nothing. It’s just gone.”

“You have no idea who the woman was? The soldiers who found you said they saw a shining figure behind you in the rift, before you fell out and it closed,” Leliana asks next.

“No. I’ve heard the whispers though. Herald of Andraste. I’m not— I don’t know. I don’t know why Andraste or the Maker would chose me as their voice. If anyone, Colm—” She cuts off, throat bobbing as she swallows hard. She doesn’t cry.

“Your husband? Was he devout?” Josephine queries, still scribbling notes.

Irene huffs a shaky laugh, blinking hard. She looks at the floor when she says, “Not in the way you all are thinking. Colm didn’t believe the Chantry should have as much power as it does.” She pauses, and though her voice is softer when she continues, she’s also lifted her chin to stare at them in turn. “What he did believe was in the power of kindness, and setting good examples, and— I can’t explain it properly, but… If anyone held the Maker’s light, it was him. If I was _chosen_ , Andraste missed the far better candidate for Her will standing right next to me.” Silence falls again when she is done, but her words linger in Cullen’s mind. Her self-hatred is strong. Why?

“What did the voice mean, Colm was a traitor to his kind?” Leliana says, edging around the real question yet unanswered.

“I imagine… I imagine that refers to how he came to leave Tevinter.”

Josephine gasps. Cassandra practically snarls, “ _Tevinter?_ ” Cullen’s hands clench around his pommel, cramping his hands and turning the knuckles white — he didn’t realize they had drifted back to their familiar resting spot. Leliana’s mask is firmly in place; she is the only one to not have a visible reaction. Instead she orders with a voice like steel, “Explain.”

Irene shifts her weight and crosses her arms. It is a defensive posture, but at least it gives them more time if she decides to reach for her greatsword. “It is a long story.”

“We have time.” Cullen is glad Leliana has yet to be truly angry with him; they may disagree on many things but he has never seen her this way, even right after the Conclave. To be the focus of her ire would be a deadly position.

Irene is not afraid; she seems to have prepared herself for this. “Colm is short for Columbus, and he and his brother Caius fled Tevinter following a scandal in which they helped a slave kill their father, a magister. That is the short of it. My husband _admired_ Divine Justinia. He did not agree with many southern customs regarding magic, but he did not tolerate slavery or blood sacrifice either. He always believed there must be another way.” She pauses, lets her arms drop to her sides. “I can only hope to carry on as he would have wanted. He and I were very different people, but in his memory I will try to leave the world a better place than I found it, if at all possible. It is the least I can do.”

Silence falls again but for the soft scratching of Josephine’s quill. Cullen cannot imagine the diplomatic explosion-in-the-making Irene has given their Ambassador, but if anyone can defuse it, it is her. Cassandra and Leliana are exchanging looks again, the Seeker having relaxed a minuscule amount during Irene’s explanation and Spymaster clearly thinking ten steps ahead, as she always does. As for Cullen, he finds himself pitying Irene for the position she has found herself in. “I admire your honesty, Herald,” he says softly, before he thinks too hard about it.

Brown eyes dart to him, but she doesn’t rebuke the title. She seems… surprised? There’s another emotion flitting beneath, but the headache is rising to the forefront of his mind and he can’t identify it.

Leniana shifts, folding her hands behind her back. “Yes, you have given us a lot to think about. I believe we should move our discussion on closing the Breach to tomorrow. Agreed?”

Though Cassandra could probably go into the wee hours of the morning, she relents, and the date is set.

Cullen leaves the Chantry with his headache pounding away, and the late afternoon sun doesn’t help. But he soldiers on, as he always does, walking down with Cassandra in silence. He wants to be able to lie down in his tent with a pillow over his head and rest, but there’s recruits to oversee and reports to read. He will sleep when it becomes unavoidable.

~o~O~o~

It’s late and the moons have long since risen. Everyone but the guards (and Cullen) have gone to bed. The night shift may have a good reason to stay up, but Cullen should have forced himself to sleep hours ago. He knows this, he does. He still can’t bring himself to.

Working methodically, he transfers reports from his ‘unread’ stack, writes replies, and drops those in the crate for a runner to pick up in the morning. The headache lingers and makes it difficult to focus. He loses track of time — not that he ever has a good sense anymore. He reaches for another report and his hand hits the bare wood of his desk. _Oh_.

Cullen glances back at his pallet. The tent is relatively large, but most of it is taken up by the desk. It’s not like a fancy bed would help, anyway.

He gets up, feeling his bones creak from so much sitting. He is not old, but sometimes he feels the years. Most of the time, actually. He steps outside into the freezing Frostback night, taking a deep breath of the chilly mountain air. It is still, and, if he only looks north, peaceful. Southward the sky is dominated by the Breach. If he looks at it too long he remembers: green streaks of light, like mockeries of shooting stars, falling to the earth. The ground erupting with the impact, flinging his soldiers about like dolls. The shrieks of demons, that time blending in with all the other times.

A shadow moves near the gates. The guards are there, but they are looking out, not inward, and the shadow slips past them and circles around behind the tents.

Cullen gets his sword halfway unsheathed, but the warning shout dies on his lips when the shadow suddenly straightens up, and their cloak rustles in the wind. The moonlight glints off chainmail. The Herald? No other woman (and precious few of the men) in Haven is so tall, and he recognizes the dark brown cloak as the one Leliana gifted to her. Irene skirts towards the lake, walking fast. _What is she doing?_

It’s not hard to follow her heavy footprints, though he loses sight of her. She’s headed up into the hills, and he finally catches up to her some ten minutes later on a cliff overlooking the lake and Haven. He crests the rise and stops, realizing all at once what she’s doing. What he’s doing, too.

Irene is kneeling, gathering snow with her bare hands to pile onto a flat rock she’s placed a foot from the cliff edge. When she has shaped it to her liking she rubs her hands — Maker, they must be freezing — on her cloak and clasps them in front of her, bowing her head. She mouths something, ignoring the wind whipping her hair. He takes a step back, shamed blush creeping up his neck. She needed some time alone, obviously, and here he had to hunt her down. Hasn’t he left that life behind, mage or not? He’s about to leave her be and return to Haven, when she sits back on her heels and, without turning her head, says, “What are you still doing up, Commander?” It’s quiet, but her voice carries.

“I could ask you the same.”

She turns her head, a tiny smile on her lips. “I have been asleep for one of the last two weeks.”

“That is… true enough. I apologize; I will leave you alone.” He turns around, fully intending to do just that, but she calls him back. “Yes, Herald?”

“I wanted to ask you something.” She stands up and brushes the snow off her legs. “Do you believe we really stand a chance? Not only sealing the Breach, but restoring order as the Divine wanted?”

He blinks, turning the question over in his head. His first instinct is to answer with enthusiasm, but the look on her face begs a more measured response. She’s uncertain, but a woman like her will not accept blind optimism. Not that he would call it optimism — he considers himself more pragmatic — but he believes it. “Yes. If anyone can do it, it is the Inquisition. It’ll be hard, of course, but I believe it is the Maker’s will.” Something flickers in her eyes, and he adds, “Maybe not so obvious, but… I have to believe there’s meaning behind this.”

“I can understand that,” she says. “I’m— not the most faithful person. Yes, Maker and His Bride, but…” She shakes her head. “I know on some level prayer and putting myself in the hands of a higher power might make many of my issues better or even disappear, but I can’t. I can’t do it.”

Her parents might have something to do with that. “It’s something unique to each person. Or should be.” That’s all the comfort he can offer her without lying.

Irene studies him for a long moment. He tries not to fidget under her gaze. Finally she lets out a long breath. “I’m told you were Knight-Commander of Kirkwall’s Circle.”

It is an abrupt subject change, a topic he’s been expecting to come up — and it has before — but not so quickly. Not here. “I… yes. Knight-Captain before everything fell apart.” This time he does fidget, hands tightening — imperceptibly beneath his gloves, he hopes — on his pommel. It is a habit, and one that makes many people nervous, but she seems to have realized he’s not threatening her when he does it.

She makes a considering noise. “Caius was there briefly. Was taken in three months before… that.”

“He escaped?”

“Yes. We lost contact with him while he was in Kirkwall, thought he had died with everyone else when we got the news. It turns out as soon as Meredith made the announcement, he fled. Fade-stepped across the Waking Sea, according to the letter we got before he dropped off the face of Thedas again.” She shrugs. “Not sure if I believe it but… he always was good at that spell.”

Cullen shakes his head. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad he got away.” He means it, he’s surprised to find.

“I still don’t know whether he was at the Conclave or not, but if he’s still alive, he’s going to be devastated. They were twins.” She sighs, turns her face to the sky. It would be a beautiful, peaceful night, if not for the Breach still casting an eerie green glow over the place. “I wish I had more to remember him by. But memories will have to do.”

Cullen doesn’t know what to say, and the melancholy look doesn’t suit her, so he follows her gaze to the stars. They stand in silence for a long time, until she sighs again.

“Good night, Commander. I hope we can both find rest.”


	4. Varric

> _Such are promises!_  
>  _All lies and jests_  
>  _Still a man hears what he wants to hear_  
>  _And disregards the rest_  
>  — “The Boxer”, Simon  & Garfunkel

 

* * *

 

“Varric Tethras. I knew I had heard that name.”

The dwarf in question glances up from the fire, gesturing with his flagon. “Really, Stormy? You didn’t recognize me immediately? You wound me.”

The bags under Irene’s eyes could carry an Orlesian’s powder kit, he sees, but at least she’s still standing. Her hands are on her hips, and she’s blinking at him, clearly taken aback by his jest. She’s been cloistered in with the advisors too much of late, he supposes. Today, two meetings. The rumor is they’re trying to figure out a way to get Chantry support in the wake of Roderick’s denouncement of the Inquisition. It’s all above Varric’s pay grade, but he is curious how it will turn out. He’s already taking notes, after all.

“I don’t read a lot of fiction,” she says at last.

“Okay, most of my stuff is fiction, yeah. But _Tale of the Champion_? All true! Mostly true.”

“ _Tale of the Champion_ …” she repeats, rolling the title around in her mouth. Varric is tempted to joke about her literacy, but that would probably be a bad idea. “That was the one about Hawke, right? Cassandra mentioned something about him.”

“Yep. Seeker was looking for him before the Conclave, wanted him to lead this Inquisition. Until I said I had no idea where he was, and then you fell out of the sky.” He would go into more detail about Cassandra’s rough treatment, but there will be plenty of opportunities for that.

Irene’s eyes narrow. “Until you _said_ you had no idea where he was.”

“Shit, Stormy! Not you too!” he deflects. He reminds himself that though Irene looks like nothing but a thug, he still needs to be careful. “Look, even if I did know where he was, I’d rather have you than him any day. I respected the man, sure, but he and I weren’t exactly the best of friends. He got shit done, but he left a lot of bodies in his wake. _Allies_ ’ bodies.” Varric still doesn’t know why Cassandra was so eager to find Hawke; it was all in the book. He spared no one, and Hawke had — has — a lot to answer for.

“He killed his own _allies_?”

Varric sighs, gulps the rest of his ale. “Not directly, but yes. He sold an escaped slave back to his magister master, after leading him on for years. I thought they had a nice romance going on, right up until the betrayal. He did a lot of backstabbing, towards the end. The only person he _didn’t_ stab — literally, or figuratively — was the guy who blew up the Chantry.” The sick smile on Hawke’s face as it had all unraveled… Practically congratulating a resigned Anders, encouraging him to run. No one had seen it coming. Meredith wasn’t the only lunatic in Kirkwall, she was just worse at hiding it.

Irene’s face has gone through an interesting array of emotions while he’s been talking: disbelief, surprise, anger, disgust. He’s grateful she’s so bad at hiding them. “I can’t… Why?”

It’s not a rhetorical question, but he can only shrug and look down into his empty flagon. “I’ll need a lot more ale to even begin to speculate. Join me if you like?”

She twitches, like he’s just suggested drinking _literal_ dragon piss, says her goodbyes quietly and continues on her way down to her cabin. Varric shakes his head. Irene Trevelyan may be unstable, especially with so much pressure on her, but she is no Garrett Hawke and for that, he could almost thank the Maker.

~o~O~o~

The Hinterlands are huge and strangely boring for a battlefield. Varric wants nothing more than to get what they need — Mother Giselle — and go, but Irene rallies further as the days pass, and he can’t complain about her wanting to help people. _Solas_ complains, mentions the Breach and Val Royeaux more frequently as they linger. He’s only slightly mollified with the discovery of some artifact that is supposed to measure the Veil.

Then he is back to complaining.

Varric thought he had Irene figured out — that she would argue with Solas over her leading them up and down and around the countryside while the Breach was still visible in the distance — but she mostly ignores the elf. She is, for once, in a good mood, though sometimes he catches her staring off into the distance with that _expression_. The one when she remembers something both fondly and with crushing grief. That one. He thinks about how to describe it in his book, but it will never suffice when compared to seeing it with his own eyes. Such is the nature of writing from life.

(There were some things he left out of Hawke’s tale, for the sake of the story. Things that may better explain how he should never be a choice for leader of anything. One day, maybe, he will write them down. Sod the plot. Sod the flow.)

~o~O~o~

He leaves the tent in the middle of night, Solas still breathing deeply and undoubtedly doing… something Fade-related, to find Irene still sitting alone by the embers of their campfire. He shakes his head at her pensive profile, and wanders off into the woods.

When he comes back some minutes later, she is, unsurprisingly, still there. He sits down next to her. “If you don’t mind me asking, Stormy, isn’t it time you woke up Cassandra?”

“Yes,” she replies. It is a simple statement of fact; she doesn’t sound remotely guilty. She breathes deep and keeps her eyes on the horizon.

“Right. If you, again, don’t mind me asking, is there something you’ve been avoiding? Something important?”

He _means_ sleep, but she turns her head sharply and says, “I am not avoiding meeting with the Mothers! I need to help these people, and time to… Time to… Bullocks.” She turns away again, hands clenching. The mark flares in her left fist, and she hisses and punches the ground.

_All right then_. “It’ll be fine. Look, you may not be the sweet-talking negotiator Ruffles wanted, or the steady leader Curly wanted… or really, who any of us expected.” She scowls at him, but he shrugs and keeps talking. This is, for once, what he’s good at. “But you are far from incapable. Like she said,” he hooks his thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of the Crossroads, though Mother Giselle is probably in Haven by now, “you don’t need them to agree with you. What you need is doubt. They think you murdered the Divine. Show them you want justice for her real killer. Just… try not to let them under your skin. They win that way.”

Something in her posture loosens at his words: she lets out a long breath and leans back on her hands, looking up at the stars. She studies them, that _expressio_ n creeping back across her face. Varric lets her think. He’s said all he wanted to say, and though he could say more, no more is needed.

“Thank you,” she says when the embers have long become cold ashes. “You… remind me of someone. I haven’t seen him in years, but… I hope he’s okay, wherever he is.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re friends with _another_ handsome dwarf with irresistible charm and impressive chest hair? What a coincidence.”

She barks a surprised laugh, wiping at her eyes. “No! I’m afraid you’re the only one I know quite like you. He’s almost twice your height, for one.”

“My dear Herald, was that a _joke_?”

Her smile cracks a bit at the title, but her voice is still teasing when she says, “No joke. He’s taller than me. Only by a fingerwidth, but still. He’s my… my brother. Half brother. One of my father’s many bastards. But he was the only one who let me be myself, when we were young.”

“Sounds like a good brother.” He does not mention that he wishes he had a brother now. It would ruin the mood, and it is not about him, besides.

“He will be so worried that I haven’t written. Everything has happened so fast. I don’t have the last letter from before… before the Conclave, anymore. I don’t remember where he was.”

“Don’t worry.” He pats her arm. “If anyone can find him, it’s our Sister Nightingale.”

He helps her with the first draft that night, and the next day Irene finally turns back toward the Crossroads to ask Corporal Vale if there is anything more that can be done.

He stares at her like she’s bloody Andraste come from on high.

And that is the day she looks back at them, exhausted, blistered, and smelly from days out on the road, and says, “Well then. Suppose it’s time to go.”

~o~O~o~

_Brother,_

_I don’t know how much you’ve heard, wherever you are. Everything has been happening so fast, I can barely keep up myself most days._

_And I’m in the thick of it. I was at the Conclave. I’m the only survivor — Colm is dead. I’m the one they’re calling the Herald of Andraste, brother. Symbol of the reborn Inquisition, closer of the rifts, a bloody Chosen One. I’m having enough trouble just trying to stay sane in all this, I can’t begin to live up to their dreams. I can’t begin to live up to my own._

_I am going to Val Royeaux. My advisors — I have advisors! — insist that I need to get the support of the Chantry, or at least divide and conquer. I hope you don’t believe their stories about me. I didn’t kill the Divine._

_I miss you._

_Irene_

~o~O~o~

Irene’s mood does not sour as they near Val Royeaux, but she does grow tense. The four of them haven’t stopped in Haven for more than a day to rest before they are out on the road again with the advisors’ blessings. Whatever they’d said in that war room, Irene holds herself like a giant is pressing down on her shoulders.

Her mood _does_ sour when they enter Val Royeaux. A Mother grandstands in the square, decrying the Inquisition for all to hear. Worse, she recognizes their party immediately, and confronts Irene. She, however, dregs up the past she seems determined to escape — daughter of a Bann — for the confrontation, and remains surprisingly tactful. Varric wouldn’t blame her, really, if she got into a shouting match with anyone and everyone who still thinks her a murderer. But they have not seen what he, what the whole Inquisition, has seen. The Mother isn’t anywhere close to doubting, but the Sisters nearby are, and the templar with them wears it openly on his face. _Herald of Andraste_.

Then the other templars arrive and it all goes to shit.

She lives up to her nickname on the ride home — though only Solas and Cassandra seem truly comfortable on a horse, they are pressed for time after gallivanting around the Hinterlands for weeks — quietly building up a storm. The other elf they’ve picked up, Sera, keeps sending the rest of them quizzical looks, but she doesn’t leave, at least. Irene found someone else, ‘the First Enchanter of the last loyal mages’ (that part is said with contempt), but he hasn’t met this Lady Vivienne yet. He is told she needs to wrap up unfinished business before joining them in Haven. Probably involving an entourage and about seventy-three suitcases, if she’s a true Orlesian.

He chats with Sera, trying to distract her from poking at the Herald literally and figuratively. She is… an odd duck, but she’s funny at least. He’s glad she hasn’t run screaming into the hills yet.

They reach the valley without incident, and arrive at Haven to find the Commander waiting for them. He is tenser than usual. No wonder; Cassandra has sent word ahead.

“Herald!” he calls as Irene swings off her horse with all the grace of a druffalo. “I heard… that is… are you all right?”

She stumbles getting off, but bats his hands away when he reaches to steady her. Interesting. She brings her shoulders back, and though they are of similar height he seems so much smaller in the moment. “Fine, Commander. I’m fine. Val Royeaux won’t be. I did get approached by Grand Enchanter Fiona, though. Seems we have a better alternative to your precious templars,” she snarls.

He reels back as if struck. Varric winces. It’s a low blow, and the long road between Orlais’ capital and Haven has done nothing to soften her fury. A crowd is gathering, too, whispering among themselves.

Irene huffs and shoulders past him, heading for the gates, but stops short when Leliana, waiting on the steps, speaks.

“It’s more complicated than that,” she says calmly, voice ringing. She produces a folded paper. A report? “Your letter bore fruit. We have received a reply. You should read it before deciding.” She saunters back inside.

Irene takes a deep breath, then sprints after her.

~o~O~o~

_Sister,_

_I believe a lot of things, true enough, but I could never believe that you would harm a hair on Colm’s head. He was a good man and I am sorry._

_We hear very little, but what gets through is worrying. The rumors are vicious and I fear the Lord Seeker has done his best to promote them. What goes on outside fills me with dread, but what is happening here is worse. It is a thousand times worse. I do not wish to alarm you, but it is difficult to overplay the situation._

_I am at Therinfal Redoubt, sister, with the remaining templars. The loyal templars, as we called ourselves at the start of the war. Oh, how arrogant we were. Our loyalty has been twisted. I don’t know what’s happening, but something stalks these halls._

_I am sorry._

_Julien_


	5. Cole

 

> _There’s a room where the light won’t find you_  
>  _Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down_  
>  _When they do I'll be right behind you_  
>  — “Everybody Wants to Rule the World”, Tears For Fears

 

* * *

 

She is… enraged when Envy assumes the guise of her friends. The rage masks hurt. Hurt, broken hope, dizzying spinning in her head. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know yet.

He waits for her to come to him. Envy guides her there, in its own way. It doesn’t know he’s there yet, all its focus on knowing her. Being her. Wearing her face and wrecking havoc on the world outside, the world of people. It doesn’t know how close she is to that knife’s edge with or without it.

He says he wants to help her, and she almost believes him. Why not? He is not lying. She is… strange. But he can help.

She hides the hurt again, or tries to, but he hears. Here, it is harder for him to hear; inside her mind but with Envy there, he can’t find a lot of the hurt. He knows he’s missing some. But he hopes he’s helping.

She knows, but she still doesn’t understand.

He tells her the templars were impressed with her in the courtyard. The truth, but she scoffs and turns away, old hurts pricking at her heart. Why won’t she believe him?

He leads her away, then shadows her through her own head, helping when she falters at particularly vicious hurts. Fire all around, prisons inside prisons. She’s not the jailor, but Envy says she is. The puzzle Envy makes in her mind confuses her, but he helps. He always helps. She makes it through. She wasn’t made for running around inside her own head, though she is always there.

When she sees the door to the Great Hall, the world stopping where her memories stop, she breaks into a sprint. Envy, spirit-quiet and demon-loud, pounces.

She whirls. Envy has her by the throat, holding her up. She does not need him to help; before he can, she kicks her double hard in the stomach. She lands hard, stumbles back into the door of the hall.

He hears Envy scream, and sees a flash of white before he and she are falling, falling out of her head.

~o~O~o~

Even he cannot bypass the barrier Envy makes across the back of the hall. He wraps his forgetting-cloak around himself and waits, perched on an overturned table in a corner. Something is happening. It’s not hurt, so he can’t know what it is. She’s in pieces, peaceless, teetering on the edge of a breakdown as she scans the hall, startles when her mage friend calls to her, however softly. Odd, he is almost invisible for how he hides his hurt—

“Is this everyone?” she asks, turning to the nice templar who has been helping her. He tells her something about lieutenants and uncorrupted lyrium, but she shakes her head and looks over the hall again. Templars, frightened but determined, stare back at her, but none of them are the one she needs. Now he feels the hurt, the creeping dread.

“Herald, are you…”

“My brother,” she says, voice tight. “This tall, darker blond than me, carries that damnable folding fan everywhere he goes?” At that last part Barris’ eyes go wide with recognition, and she hones in. “You _do_ know him. If… If he’s been corrupted—”

“I haven’t seen him since this began,” Barris whispers.

“He’s under Knight-Lieutenant Primmer,” another templar interjects. “They corrupted the higher-ups first, but Ser Primmer was still fighting, last I heard. He hasn’t made his way here, though.”

“Primmer,” Irene whispers. The hurt fades, a little, without him having to do anything. Good, because he hasn’t revealed himself to anyone but her. And Cole knows that revealing himself to a room full of desperate templars would be bad. A remnant of the real Cole, perhaps, but also of Compassion: he can’t help anyone if he’s dead.

He slips down from his perch and ghosts toward the Officer’s Quarters. He knows where to go. Any lone templars with the red in them never see him coming, but he stays away from the groups, even of two. They still have their smites.

~o~O~o~

“I am glad Varric is not here,” Cassandra, who is templar and yet not-templar, says when they find the red lyrium growing from the ground and walls of a storage room. The Fade-walker nods.

“Me too,” Irene says, mouth pulled down. They do not linger in that room, but grab the unsullied lyrium and flee.

He does not need to be here for this, just to help defeat Envy, but he still shadows their steps. He does not know the templar they are looking for from any other templar; he is here for Irene, so full of hurt. He can hear the rest of it now, underneath layers of rage and vengeance and more pressing hurts of the moment. There is no time to unravel it all, not here.

They find Knight-Lieutenant Primmer surrounded by red templars, most of them still with their original shape but a few without. He holds his shield close to the ground, and between it and his feet is the fallen body of still another templar. Irene doesn’t see it, charging in when she spots the horrors, but he, he knows. It’s _wrong_. He stays at the edges of the battle. Maybe this will be the time he shows himself fully to Not-Templar and Fade-Walker and the she-elf who screeches in alarm every time a barrier spell washes over her. But it’s over too quickly, the last horror beheaded with a sweep of Irene’s greatsword before he can commit himself to it.

“Julien! Oh Maker, no!” Irene spots the fallen templar, now that Primmer has moved back a bit. “What— Solas, Solas _help_ —” He would be helped best by a dagger to the heart, he believes. But no, he is not the Ghost anymore. A ghost, but not the Ghost.

Solas is kneeling by Julien before Irene even calls for him, carefully moving the man’s hands away from his stomach to look at the wound there.

It is… far from good but better than the most likely outcome. Something has dented the standard-issue Sword of Mercy breastplate so badly that it looks crumpled. Extensive internal injuries, perhaps beyond the scope of any healers available, but not infected by the red. Irene’s brother is unconscious, breathing shallow.

“Looks like one of these monsters hit him hard enough,” Solas says, running his fingers over the steel. Pale green light pulses from his hand. Primmer opens his mouth and shuts it again.

“Can he be moved?” Cassandra paces a short distance away. “I hear fighting. We should get back to the hall before they are overwhelmed.”

Solas pauses, taps his finger gently on the ruined plate. Julien groans but doesn’t wake. “I don’t think it’s best, but it is our only option if we do not wish to leave him behind.”

“ _No_.” Irene bares her teeth at Solas, who inclines his head but otherwise shows cool disinterest. “I will carry him the whole way if I must.”

“As you say, but the armor must remain on until he is stabilized. I don’t know what kind of damage is beneath.”

~o~O~o~

Irene, true to her word, carries her brother all the way back into the hall. Though her back strains under the weight of him and his armor, they make it through the door just in time for Sera to snipe the red templar attacking Barris through the eye.

“Good shot,” Solas says.

“Any time, Ser Arse-Stick,” Sera retorts, breezing past to climb down the ladder.

Cassandra makes a noise of disgust, and Irene growls, “Behave, Sera.”

_It’s all wrong and it makes her skin crawl. Can’t control it, lest it control you. Can’t let it in your head, except that it already is._ Why _does she feel that way?_

Irene turns, still holding her brother, but she sees him and forces herself to relax. “Cole.”

Oh, had he spoken? Thoughts and words blur so easily. He looks past her but the others are already down the ladder and out of earshot. Except for Solas, who looks out over the balcony. He twitches an ear at them but says nothing. This one is… quiet. Softer, subtle. There is hurt there, but he only knows its shape, its shadow, not what it is. How strange.

“Envy is waiting for you. I’ll help,” he says.

She nods, looks around the balcony. There’s a dark corner near the long mess table; she sets Julien down and brushes his sweat-damp hair back from his face. “Okay,” she whispers. “Please let this be enough. I don’t know if I could…” She swallows hard and turns away, motioning to Solas to follow her down to the main level.

Cole steps closer to the injured templar, tilts his head, and concentrates. It only makes him a little tired.

~o~O~o~

Envy leaves a ringing in his ears that makes it hard to hear hurt, but Irene’s voice when she demands the templars atone for their sins is enough. She is furious, a beacon of — and for — rage.

He turns away, goes to check on Julien. He doesn’t want anyone else being forgotten. The templar is still alive, but fever-bright.

He waits, ever patient, while the party irons out the specifics of the conscription. Then there’s writing reports, and preparing for transport to Haven. The nobles who got them here fled to the winds when the fighting broke out, so Irene’s party commandeers horses and a small wagon from Therinfal. Cole slips into the wagon with Julien, and holds his hand through the bumps in the road. Julien wakes briefly, in the middle of the fever, and Cole whispers comfort until he falls unconscious again.

Solas checks on his patient every hour, applying compresses and inspecting the massive black bruise on Julien’s stomach for change. He sees Cole, but only nods cordially in his direction. How _strange_.


	6. Irene

 

> _How can a tree stand tall_  
>  _If a rain won’t fall_  
>  _To wash it’s branches down?_  
>  _And how can the heart survive_  
>  _Can it stay alive_  
>  _If it’s love’s denied for long?_  
>  — “Lift the Wings”, Bill Whelan (Riverdance)

 

* * *

 

Irene returns to Haven utterly exhausted. Julien is alive, but it is somehow worse to be so close and unable to talk than it was when she had no idea where he was. Envy’s attempted hostile takeover leaves her with a pounding in her temples even days later, and she’s still trying to wrap her head around what that boy… spirit… thing… said. The templars had no idea what she was talking about, either.

Then she arrives back in the mountain village and has to endure a war meeting when all she wants to do is crawl into her bed and sleep.

Or drink… but no. She won’t. Sleep it is.

“ _You_ did not see what I saw, Commander,” she snaps. “The templars are too far gone. I never wanted to go to them in the first place, but now that I have, they’d damn well better help me close that Breach.” Her voice is straining, but she doesn’t care.

“Cassandra wrote that you found your brother,” Josephine says delicately.

She knows what the Ambassador means, though. They always think she’s stupid. “Yes. He is included in the conscription. He is too injured to help, but I will not be accused of favoritism. After the Breach is dealt with, I would support granting the templars more freedoms. For now, they are on thin ice.”

Cullen grits his teeth but doesn’t argue further. Leliana says, “We have a few dozen veterans on their way ahead of the rest. They should arrive—”

And then Cole is there on the war table, crouched just so that he doesn’t step on any of the flags. He picks one up, ignoring Josephine’s scream and Cullen’s shout of alarm, and says, “Soon. Templars don’t like to be late.”

Cassandra and Cullen draw their swords, and Leliana has a dagger out faster than a blink. Irene waves them down, but no one moves. “Cole,” she says, “what are you _doing_ —”

“You _know_ this creature?” Cassandra snarls, stepping forward to put her sword between Irene and Cole. He tilts his head at her, something in those watery blue eyes that makes Irene grab Cassandra’s wrist and squeeze.

The sword drops with a clatter. Cassandra yanks her wrist back, but Irene holds tight and says, “Stop it. He wants to help.” She lets go, turns to Cole and says, “Come on, off the war table.” She needs to control this situation before someone gets hurt — and it won’t be Cole. She has seen him fight, after all.

Cullen looks between her and Cassandra. His swordpoint drops a few inches.

Cole slips off the table, murmuring something about ‘not being a war’. He is literal-minded, and she is reminded of herself when she was young.

“I, for one, am interested in why he came,” Leliana says, folding her hands behind her back. Her dagger is undoubtedly still palmed there.

“You,” he says to Irene. “You help people. I saw. I want to help too. Help you help them.” He ducks his head and peers at her from under his lashes and the brim of his ridiculous hat. “I won’t get in the way. I won’t need any of your supplies. I just want to help.”

His voice sounds almost plaintive on the last sentence, and if she had not already decided, that does. “Cullen. Cassandra. He saved my life in Therinfal. I’m not turning him away. _Or_ killing him.”

“Then…?” Cole says, blinking. Blue eyes. Her husband had blue eyes. Not nearly so big and watery, though.

She takes a deep breath, wills her chest to stop aching. “You can stay and help, Cole.”

He tilts his head at her again. “Tiny. No trouble. No notice taken unless you want them to.”

Cullen finally sheathes his sword with a frustrated sigh. “Fine, but you’re not honestly suggesting he can run around doing as he pleases?”

Irene turns to him and scowls. “He is currently in higher standing than the templars. He has not once tried to kill me.”

“That’s not—”

“Or blithely ignored others trying to kill me.” She is being petty, but she also doesn’t care. She needs to sleep, but undoubtedly something else will come up before she can. It always does.

“I don’t think anyone is suggesting he be left alone,” Josephine says, looking thoughtful — and neatly skipping over Irene’s point. “Perhaps we could— oh! Where did he go?”

Cole is gone again, the map marker he picked up right back where it is supposed to be. Irene sighs, rubs her temples. “He… does that. But he isn’t the main concern right now. If the templars are almost here, we need to prepare.” She barely waits for them to agree before turning on her heel and leaving the war room.

Colm has rubbed off on her, she thinks. Her husband was kindhearted, sometimes to the point of folly. A few years ago she would have killed Cole on sight, but now she’s a different person. She just hopes she’s different enough, and that her faith is justified.

“Oh, I see it now. It was hidden before. Hiding or running. It can never be both. You didn’t kill him, but you did kill _him_. Bare fists, bloody face. Eyes like yours.”

Her breath catches in her lungs as she freezes in the hall. Cole is half-hidden in the shadow of a pillar, but his voice is loud in the quiet Chantry, and the hushed conversation between Mother Giselle and Vivienne stops as both women look over curiously. Irene’s stomach feels heavy, but her heart is hammering away at her chest. _There it is. You never truly thought you could run far enough to escape this, did you?_

Footfalls behind her, but she won’t run, not again.

“Herald? What is he talking about?” Cullen. Irene cannot appreciate the irony of him taking Cole’s word for it _now_ , after drawing a blade on him earlier.

She turns slowly, finds them all behind her. She knows her expression isn’t helping matters, but she never could control her face. She’s so tired, so tired of everything.

“Irene,” Cassandra says, like she’s just dredged up a memory long buried. “That day, you said you thought you must have done something, and only realized you hadn’t when you saw the Breach. Tell me. What made you think you _could have_ destroyed the Conclave?”

 _Oh_. Had she said that? Everything between waking up and waking up again is a terrifying blur. She gets that way, when she’s angry. Rage would have a fine time with her. “I—”

Cole starts, eyes going wide. “Oh no. I said the wrong thing. They’ll hurt you. I won’t let them!” He reaches for his daggers, but Irene steps between him and the advisors, hands out to placate. She doesn’t have the energy for anger.

“They’re not going to hurt me, Cole. Why don’t you go find someone else to help? I’ll be fine.”

Cole stills, staring at her. “You have the mark but you don’t need to lead. Locked up, trotted out only to seal Rifts then shoved back in. Or they could find another way. Too risky. _You’re lying_.”

“I… yes, Cole.” _Shit_. She should have thought about bringing home someone who could read minds. “I am. But sometimes hurt is inevitable, necessary. Sometimes hurt is justice.”

“Justice…? You’re not that person anymore. You never were.”

She can’t think under so much pressure, but maybe that’s for the best. “Please go, Cole. Whatever will be, will be.” Her voice comes out strangled, quoting one of Julien’s favorite lines to soothe her when she got angry. If only he were here, but he’s in the infirmary. He woke up once, but was delirious from pain and too many healing potions. What will happen to him, if she can’t explain this? If the others bring down the judgment that should have been brought to bear years ago?

Cole nods jerkily and disappears again. She can only hope he’s gone farther than a few steps this time.

“Now. Herald. What’s going on?” Cassandra asks, voice hard. It pains her, to see the woman she had formed a tentative alliance with so hostile, but it is no less than she deserves.

Irene glances to the side of the hall, where Vivienne and Mother Giselle are both looking on. The First Enchanter is fanning herself while she leans against the wall, face unreadable, while Giselle has stepped forward a few paces, showing concern. Concern for Irene? It is a strange thing, to know another has so much faith in her.

Either way, she doesn’t want an audience for this. Let them gossip, but it will be difficult enough to explain to just four people. “I’ll tell you everything. Just. Not here.”

Josephine turns back toward the war room, but Irene remembers her first time approaching that room, hearing Chancellor Roderick’s raised voice from within. She knows where this must happen. She strides toward the door leading to the dungeons before she loses her nerve. It is where she has always belonged, after all, and there won’t be a walk of shame if they condemn her. _When_ they condemn her.

She leads them down the stairs, startles the single guard on duty. Knight-Captain Denam is supposed to arrive with the main force of templars, behind the veterans who will help seal the Breach, so the cells are empty. The citizens who tried to kill her before she was the Herald were released two days ago, according to Cassandra. Still, she marches all the way to the last cell. The door isn’t locked.

“Herald, what are you—” Cullen starts, but she cuts him off because if he asks it, she will think about it.

“I am Irene Stellana Trevelyan,” she begins, standing in the middle of the chilly cell with her hands clasped in front of her. Her breathing is shaky, but she has to do this. “Eight years ago I was a Templar recruit in Ostwick when I murdered one of my charges, Maxwell. Maxwell Trevelyan. My— my eldest brother.” She nearly chokes on her words. The advisors are staring at her, waiting for her to continue. Cullen shifts his weight, opens his mouth, closes it again. “I started drinking young. I couldn’t handle— I can’t handle it. Any of it.” She swallows, forces her eyes to remain open though her vision is blurring at the edges. “We were celebrating our graduation to full templars, and the other recruits had a flask of whiskey. I drank the whole thing. I knew it was dangerous.” _Deep breath. Just the facts, don’t shift the blame._

“I woke up later, on the ground, face to face with my brother’s corpse. I had beaten him to death. Blood, everywhere. I…” She shakes her head, presses her fist to her mouth so she won’t get sick. Cullen no longer looks like he wants to say anything. Josephine’s lovely brown skin is green-tinged in the dim light of the dungeon. “I couldn’t remember a thing, but I knew I had killed him. My knuckles were skinned down to the bone.” She flexes her fingers, showing them the scars that will be there the rest of her life.

There’s still more to tell, and she barrels on. “I turned myself in to the Knight-Commander. I thought I would be expelled at the least, imprisoned, maybe even executed. Maxwell had been heir to the Trevelyan name once, before his magic showed. But my father intervened on my behalf. Said I was too talented to waste on a _mage_. The Knight-Commander was a good man, but my father… He threatened to withdraw his financial support, even get the Grand Cleric to demote him. Of course he bowed. I was sent back to watching mages the next day. The day after that, before I would get my first draught of lyrium, I ran.”

“Why… why would you kill him? Do you know?” Leliana is floundering, caught off guard as she rarely is. Irene is not surprised the spymaster didn’t find this out — Bann Trevelyan is well-practiced in cleaning up.

“I don’t know. The other recruits were terrified, refused to talk to me about it. Then they all were silenced, one way or another. Some with money, a few more with blackmail. And the remainder were sent out to hunt apostates and never came back.” Yet more lives, ruined by her. She only found this out years later, when others made inquiries on her behalf. “I had no plan, when I fled the city. I just wanted out. Away from my family. I had known he cared little for Maxwell, but…” She shakes her head, trying to banish the memory that comes to her mind, as clear as it was all those years ago: Maxwell’s face, inches from her own, a bloody pulp except for his eyes. Brown like hers, like their father’s, staring into her forever, accusing where the Bann wasn’t.

There are many reasons why she doesn’t sleep until she has to.

“I can’t… I’m sorry, everyone. For acting like someone I wasn’t. For giving you false hope. For creating this mess and leaving you all to try lessening the damage.” She’s done. She takes a deep steadying breath, and holds it.

To her dull surprise, Cullen steps forward. “Irene. You didn’t know what you were doing.” A beat later and he rubs the back of his neck, evidently nervous to be so close to a murderer. But he doesn’t take the words back, or shy away. “Maker’s breath, you were _drunk_.”

“That’s not an excuse,” she says quietly.

“Not an… Irene. You had no idea drinking that whiskey would affect you so much. You have torn yourself apart over this.” There is something gentle and understanding in his eyes when he says that. “I’m not saying you were wrong to feel guilty. But I will not condemn you for something that was not your fault.” He glances back at the women, but she can’t bear to. She fixates on Cullen, fascinated by his defense. She doesn’t believe him, but she _could_.

“Josie?” Leliana says.

The Ambassador taps her quill against her chin before scribbling something down. “It could be difficult to mitigate the scandal if this gets out. I could manage it, however. We may even play it to our advantage — that the mark proves Andraste has forgiven you.” A pause. “As for what I think, it would have helped to know this from the beginning. But this is by no means a crippling blow to the Inquisition.”

Josephine is being kind, she thinks. But, Irene is no diplomat. A tiny swell of hope rises in her chest — not that she will be wholly absolved, but that the Inquisition may avoid the fallout of her mistakes.

“The Maker chose you,” Cassandra says abruptly. “I do not like the dishonesty, but even if He had not…” She sighs. “Even if He had not saved you, I think you have suffered enough.” Her posture is stiff, as if she does not like what she is saying. But Cassandra is not the kind to lie about something like this.

“Then we are in agreement,” says Leliana lightly. “Irene, I understand why you didn’t want us to know, but now that we do… Was there anything else?”

Irene huffs a disbelieving laugh, and Cullen jumps. “No. Tevinter husband, blackouts, Maxwell’s murder. That’s it from me.”

“Very well,” Cullen says. “We still have to close the Breach. Let’s worry about our immediate survival for the moment. Get some rest, Irene. If we fail at this…”

“We won’t,” she says, reeling. It’s uplifting, their faith in her. Even if she still thinks it foolish, she will bask in their kindness for as long as she can.

~o~O~o~

The next two days are spent in a flurry of activity, before the work runs out and they return to the dreadful waiting. A storm in the mountains just east of Haven delays the veterans, Leliana tells them. The Spymaster’s plan to stop the rumors before they start is mostly successful, but there is still a whisper that some issue has divided the Inquisition’s leaders. Which isn’t strictly true, but it is the best Irene could hope for.

Cole makes himself scarce, but there are signs he is still around: she finds a sprig of prophet’s laurel in a vase by Julien’s bedside, and the infirmary healers have no idea where it came from. She doesn’t know where he could have gotten the rare herb, either.

Her brother is healing steadily. The surgeon claims he will make a full recovery, even be able to fight again, though it will take time. They had to make sure he didn’t have any red lyrium in his body, and an infection took hold early on, which is why it’s taking so long. Now, with him laying there, unnaturally pale, she just wants to hear his voice again. She tucks his hair — a darker blonde than hers — behind his ears and studies his face. Same strong jawline; it looks better on him, even if it is half-hidden behind a scruffy beard. His nose was healed properly after it was broken, unlike hers. Broad of body, with a little paunch around the middle, visible even under the bandages. She’s a little surprised it has remained, given that he isn’t eating any food. Just thin broth.

Whoever his mother was, she also gave him noticeably darker skin than the rest of the family, and dark green eyes. She was envious of those eyes, when she was younger. A far step up from her own muddy brown. Hers are the same as her father’s, and Maxwell’s.

She can’t sit by his bedside forever; she tells herself it’s because she’s restless, not because she’s afraid of ruining everything she touches. She lurches up with a groan and stalks off toward the gates, grinding her jaw when the healers’ whispers follow her.

The Breach is still in the sky, and while they may be close to closing it, it won’t matter if they can’t find this Elder One Cole and Envy spoke of. Cole also mentioned Empress Celene of Orlais; she may be their best lead. Envy boasted of a demon army, too, but Irene isn’t sure whether that was posturing or a promise. Probably both. Either way, ‘army of demons’ is yet another phrase she would like to never hear again.

She steps out of Haven, nodding to the gate guards when they salute. Maker, but she will never get used to that.

Commander Cullen is taking a break from drills to oversee the construction of… something. Siege equipment? Just the base is done, but people are building more parts nearby. She comes closer, standing next to him while the workers hammer away at a long arm-like piece of wood. “What’s all this?” she says.

Cullen flinches. “Maker’s breath! I apologize, Irene, I did not see you there.” She tries to smile at him — he must have been really distracted, not to have heard _her_ lumbering up — and though she knows it comes out as a grimace at best, he continues, “Haven is no fortress, but we need some kind of defense. These are to be trebuchets. I pray we never have to use them.” He won’t look at her for more than a second at a time. Well, it’s not as if she expected everything to be perfect after her confession.

“Me too,” she says. He’s nervous, with her there, so she shifts her weight and turns away. “I shouldn’t be distracting you.”

“Ah, you— you aren’t distracting me,” Cullen says, voice tinged with a note of panic, and she stops. When she looks at him he’s rubbing the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up to his ears. “I would welcome your company. Unless you have other plans?”

Irene remembers why she left Haven’s walls in the first place. “I was going to visit the overlook again,” she murmurs. His blush is throwing her, and she considers that the nervousness may be born of something other than fear. Cullen is almost unfairly handsome. She doesn’t think he’s truly interested in her — she knows she’s not a good-looking woman, and to have this man be falling for her _personality_ is laughable — and in any case, her heart still aches. Someday, she will move on, but she can’t imagine it now.

“Oh.” His hand drops to hang listlessly at his side. “I… apologize, Herald.” He wants to say something else, she can tell, but he decides against it.

 _‘Oh’, indeed_. “There is nothing to apologize for, Commander. Good luck with the defenses — may we never use them.” Irene moves on, the weight on her chest that’s been suffocating her for weeks pressing that much more. She feels him following her with his eyes, but she keeps going.

The land’s been cleared halfway around the lake, in preparation for the templars to come, but the overlook is safe, and her little shrine remains. There’s something lying in the snow in front of it, something that wasn’t there before. She stops a few paces away, wary. She hadn’t thought about it, but a thin layer of snow fell since she was here last. There are footprints leading up, fresh ones, and the rock’s edges has been dusted off. A cut flower — embrium — sticks up out of the pile of snow.

Who would have been here? Who would violate her husband’s empty grave? The white-hot rage that steals her breath and blurs her vision is familiar, at least. It is better than feeling lost, as she has mostly felt since waking up in the Chantry months ago.

She marches over, intent on ripping out the embrium, and throwing whatever is lying in front over the edge to shatter on the lake ice below.

It’s… a staff. It’s _Colm’s_ staff. Still in two pieces, still charred from the explosion, but instantly recognizable from the iron crescent on top. Someone retrieved it. Someone went up to the Temple and found it, brought it back down to put at the shrine she thought only she — and Cullen — knew about.

She falls to her knees, now out of breath for a different reason altogether. She won’t cry. She won’t.

_But why—?_

Her hands ghost over the splintered wood, and she sobs.


	7. Dorian

> _When there's nowhere else to run_  
>  _Is there room for one more son_  
>  _One more son_  
>  _If you can hold on, if you can hold on_  
>  _Hold on_  
>  — “All These Things That I've Done”, The Killers

 

* * *

 

To put it mildly, Dorian Pavus is up to his well-groomed mustache in it.

He knows. The Elder One knows by now that they ran, knows exactly who betrayed him. Well, never let it be said he is a coward. He was never on their side. Felix and Gereon Alexius are dead, having outlived their usefulness. There is nothing for him now but warning the Inquisition.

The south is bloody cold, but Dorian can’t feel it now. The horse’s sides are heaving; it will collapse any moment. He reaches down and presses his palm to the beast’s flesh. A burst of light and Haste takes hold; the horse whinnies in fright but keeps going, the snowy countryside turning into little more than a blur. Thank goodness there aren’t any trees nearby—

The horse drops out from under him and he’s flying, head over heels in a bundle of robes. He doesn’t have time to make a peep before he’s tumbling down, rocks jabbing into his sides. Tacere yelps somewhere, and the horse screams. It feels a frightfully long time before he hits the bottom of the hill. He lands in a pile of snow, at least. Small victories.

He stares up at the sky for a moment, the sky that now only contains traces of the Breach that has been there for months. Green clouds swirl around the area where the hole to the Fade used to be. The Herald — and her templars — closed the Breach an hour or two ago, while the two of them were running. Yes. He was running.

Tacere’s pointed face blocks out the sky above. Those amber eyes reflect any amount of light in the dark. They almost seem to glow now.

“Come on,” he hisses in his strong Orlesian accent, uncharacteristically grim. “Haven’s that way. We can make it ahead of the army if we get moving.”

Dorian takes the offered hand and the elf helps him up. The horse is to his left, all four legs broken and throat cut. The wound steams in the cold, but the beast is already dead. Tacere’s work.

His ankle twists unnaturally and he stumbles with a curse. He knows only enough healing to take the worst of the pain away, and he bites down hard on his lip as he follows Tacere into the darkness, heading towards the light in the distance. Haven must be celebrating the Herald’s victory. They won’t be for long.

~o~O~o~

“Why exactly are you here?” he had demanded the day he met Tacere in Redcliffe. The rogue had materialized one day in the tavern and acted like he’d always been there. It would fool most people but not Dorian, who had used the same trick himself when forced to interact with the locals. He avoided them in case Alexius caught on, but a few cases demanded it.

“Darling!” Tacere had said, and if he had a scarf he would have fluttered it in shock. “I am here for the same reasons you are. _Mostly_.”

Neither of them had been in Redcliffe for long, but already Dorian knew he would have to leave, warn the fledgling Inquisition. Word was the Herald of Andraste had ignored the mages’ plight and gone directly to the templars, who didn’t even want her help. But he felt it his duty to at least let her know about the Venatori and the Elder One behind them.

“Oh, really? And what might these other reasons be, hmm?”

Tacere had smirked, which then grew into a wide grin. “Oh, just looking for someone.” The words were innocent but the grin was not. “Why so suspicious, _mon chéri?_ I could ask _you_ why you’re here, but I won’t because I already know.” He winked and slipped away, fading into the shadows before Dorian could hunt him down and force him to explain what that meant. Now they are crashing through the forest ( _why_ is there suddenly a _forest?_ ), within fireball distance of Haven, and he still doesn’t know what Tacere wants. He would have thought murder or espionage, but he doesn’t want to suspect the elf of something he will probably be accused of as a ‘Vint’. Dorian can feel the army behind him, the impending doom. He loves dramatics, but this is ridiculous.

Tacere has broken through the treeline up ahead, and a moment later Dorian does as well, emerging onto a well-trod path. The elf looks back at him, then his eyes are drawn to something above Dorian’s head and the look on his face really doesn’t belong there, it just doesn’t—

“Run!” Tacere seizes him by the arm and then they are sprinting for the gates of Haven. A sprawling camp is set up outside, but everyone must be celebrating within the village. Or maybe not — a watch-bell rings somewhere, and shouts of alarm reach Dorian’s ears even through the blood pumping furiously to keep him at pace with Tacere. The elf is not injured, but he is shorter, and that is the only reason Dorian isn’t left behind in the snow.

They reach the gates and Dorian fully intends to ram into them, making a suitably dramatic entrance, but the doors hold tight and both of them bounce off, Dorian landing on his back — the slush seeps into his robes in an instant — and Tacere doing a rather impressive roll to pop up a few paces away.

He scrambles up, muttering a curse. “If someone could open these, I’d appreciate it!” There is no response from Haven, and he turns to stare at his rogue acquaintance. “Now wha—”

He’s talking to the Venatori sneaking up on him, apparently, and he squeaks and dives out of the way before the zealot’s sword comes down. He conjures a fireball; the Venatori drops without a sound but for the crackling of his burning clothes. Dorian grimaces — the _smell_ — and looks for Tacere. Time for another plan.

The vanguard is upon them, and the elf is currently weaving around no less than six of them, dodging blows and sliding his daggers into flesh with wild abandon. Dorian could swear the little elf is laughing. He picks off the ones on the edges of the fight; though Tacere is in his element and doing just fine, and Dorian is a bit unnerved by the bloodthirsty way he teases the Venatori, he would be remiss not to try to help.

He doesn’t hear the doors open behind him, doesn’t realize the templars have come out to investigate until his magic cuts off and he is seized by a full-body spasm. He collapses, frothing at the mouth, and twitches as his vision fades and returns, fades and returns. _Was that… a smite?_ He’s never been smited before — how dare they!

Gradually regaining control of his limbs, he pushes himself up, gets his face out of the slush and spits out pink-tinged foam. His whole body aches, like he’s run out his mana over and over for hours. His head spins, but at least they haven’t killed him yet. He can be grateful for that, if nothing else.

“Dorian? Dorian!” Tacere’s lilt echoes over the sudden silence, and then the elf is kneeling beside him. He’s drenched in blood, hands covered in the stuff reaching out to Dorian’s face, and the mage pulls away. Tacere drops his hands. “What the fuck did you do?” This is directed at whoever is standing behind Dorian, but the mage doesn’t turn to look. He’s having trouble keeping his stomach from crawling up through his mouth, thank you. At least he didn’t piss himself.

“Fletcher, help the townsfolk get to the Chantry. We will have words later,” growls a man. Fereldan, from the accent. A clank of armor as someone leaves.

Then a woman’s voice — at least he thinks it’s a woman, but it _is_ very deep — says, “Tac? What in the world are you doing here?”

Tacere smiles through the blood and ichor on his face, and it reaches his eyes for the first time Dorian has seen. “Ree-Ree! Sorry, love, but there’s no time. Dorian and I came to warn you. The rebel mages were taken over by a Tevinter group called the Venatori. They’re under… well. He’s up there.” Tacere points back the way they came, to where two shadowy figures stand on an outcropping. The army streams down the valley on either side.

“The Elder One,” he supplies in an embarrassingly unsteady voice, since Tacere is being coy with his information. “The other is Calpernia, who commands the Venatori at the Elder One’s behest.” He struggles up, letting Tacere and the Fereldan man help him, and leans on his staff. “Fine, I’m fine. Exhausted, but— it is supposed to come back, isn’t it?”

The Fereldan nods, opens his mouth to say something. But then the woman Tacere called ‘Ree-Ree’ — and she can only be the fabled Herald of Andraste, Irene Trevelyan — barks, “Cullen, get everyone out here. We have to use the trebuchets, stop as many of them as we can. Tac, you and Dorian get up to the Chantry. You can— oh, shit.”

“What? What is it, Herald?” Cullen says, even as he motions to the people gathered just inside the gates to come out and fight. They rally at his command, charging out of the village. Most of them haven’t had time to put on armor, but they will give their lives for this cause.

Irene shakes her head, looking at Tacere. “Julien,” she breathes. “He’s in the infirmary. He won’t be able to move on his own.”

“On it, love,” the rogue says, and salutes. He tugs Dorian towards the doors to Haven. “Come on, we’ve got more heroics to do.”

~o~O~o~

Tacere leaves Dorian in the Chantry and runs off to find Julien — whoever that is — but Dorian can’t stand the looks the people already gathered there are giving him. He feels impotent, even with his mana slowly returning and the dizziness gone. He has to help. The Venatori haven’t breached the walls, so everyone is either on the front lines outside or huddled inside the Chantry. He still looks for stragglers. Not that they’ll listen to him, but if he can save _someone_ —

He’s near what appears to be a tavern, light still spilling out from the open doors. Everyone left in a hurry. He draws even with the building, watching the walls — the battle does not sound good out there — and stops short.

He sees the lantern first, overturned on a table. Then he sees the flames, merrily eating the alcohol-soaked surface and making their way towards the walls and floor. The wooden walls and floor. Then, and only then, does he see the woman, frantically scooping bottles into her arms from behind the bar. She hasn’t seen the fire. (He doesn’t want to think about her possibly having seen it and deciding to ‘rescue’ the inventory anyway; he has enough to weep over in regards to the intelligence of the average denizen of Thedas.)

“What are you doing?” he shouts, and she whirls around, bottles slipping from her arms to shatter at her feet. “Get out of there!”

She gasps and edges around the bar, away from him, towards the fire. He’s about to shout again when the flames make the leap, consuming a banner on the wall and spreading to the thatch roof in a matter of seconds.

“ _Kaffas!_ ” Dorian launches himself towards the woman — or where the woman had been, as the tavern has filled with choking smoke — and reaches out, finding her flailing arm. He tugs her towards the door, out of the path of a falling beam, which crashes down right where she had been standing. The heat is overwhelming, the smoke clogs his lungs and renders him blind as his eyes water. He’s wanted to return to blessed warmth every day since he arrived in Ferelden, but this is not what he meant.

It is pure, dumb luck that he manages to stumble out the door with the woman in tow, as he can’t see it. He releases his death grip on her arm and collapses again in the snow, coughing up bile. He’s done his part, and could happily live the rest of his life never diving into another burning building ever again. The smite’s lingering effects don’t help.

Still coughing, but with rather less disgusting results, he unhooks his staff and uses it to haul himself up. He finds the woman behind him, watching the tavern burn with a hand on her mouth and no care for the heat radiating off the doomed building, or the sparks leaping off to fizzle in the snow. She turns around slowly. “You… what do you want?”

It takes a lot of willpower not to sneer; his father would sneer, and Dorian Pavus is not his father. It is that thought that makes him say, as gently as he can, “Get to the Chantry. Everyone is gathering there.” He half expects her to think it a trap, but something comes over her face then, some steely determination, and she nods at him before taking off up the hill at a sprint.

Dorian sighs. Well, he never did think it was going to be _easy_. He turns back to the hunt.

Just over the walls, a flaming rock hurtles toward the mountain pass the Venatori are undoubtedly still swarming over like so many ants, cracking against the steep slopes. A moment later the side of the mountain breaks off, starting an avalanche that will bury the main part of the horde. A cheer rises from the front lines, the sound faint to his ears but still bolstering his spirits. They could win this.

That, of course, is when the archdemon appears.

~o~O~o~

The Chantry man — and Dorian really must get his name at some point — stumbles towards the doors, waving in the last of the front lines. It’s just Irene, Cullen, and a few people he vaguely recognizes as being there at the gates, including four soldiers in the Inquisition uniform. Nine total of the dozens who defended Haven.

“A fucking _archdemon_ , Cassandra,” Irene spits out, tugging at her hair. Her face is flushed from battle, her greatsword still covered in gore. A fresh cut slices across her temple, dripping blood down her cheek. She turns around mid-stride to continue talking to the stern-faced woman behind her, but stops in her tracks when she spots the Chantry man. “Chancellor Roderick, are you…?”

The Chancellor wobbles and keels over. Dorian is the closest, so he hooks an arm around him and drags the man to the side. “He bravely stood against a Venatori. For me.”

Irene blinks.

“Briefly,” Roderick gasps. “I am no… templar…”

Irene _gapes_.

“Herald!” Cullen turns from where he’s been holding a whispered conference with a woman in purple — a stylish outfit, Dorian thinks absently — and shakes his head with finality. “We can’t hold out much longer. That thing more than makes up for those you managed to kill with the avalanches.”

“No demands, no communication at all,” the woman says, soft Orlesian lilt ringing out in the suddenly-silent Chantry. “Whatever they want, they aren’t telling us.”

Dorian settles a panting Roderick into a chair. “It was the same with the mages. This Elder One just swept in and took them. It’s marched all this way for your Herald, too.” That was what he had gathered in Redcliffe, anyway, before he and Tacere had to flee.

_Tacere. Where is he, anyway?_

“I don’t care if it wants me, I’m not letting it destroy Haven,” Irene snaps.

“If I knew how to prevent that, I would not keep such information to myself,” Dorian says. Whether or not they believe him, he has to get that out. But Irene seems inclined to trust him, which is decidedly strange. “And the landslide went so well, too.”

“The landslide…” Irene repeats. Dorian enjoys watching the gears turn in her head — she is so bad at hiding it. “Cullen, there’s one left, right?”

“Yes.” Cullen sighs, looks around the Chantry, at the wounded and wondering. “We could turn the last one to the mountains above us. You saw — we’re overrun. The only choice left is whether to be spiteful in how we go down.” His voice is low, but Dorian doubts the onlookers are oblivious to the decision being made for them.

Dorian can see his point — he also saw the archdemon — but Cullen is making last stands too quickly for his liking. He’s seen this behavior before, in the cornered. “That’s unacceptable,” he says mildly, leaving Roderick’s side to confront them. “I did not ride double with that elf just for you to drop rocks on my head. You have no idea how clingy he is.”

Irene startles at the mention of Tacere, but Cullen speaks before she can. “Are you suggesting we _let_ them kill us?”

“Suicide — dying _at all_ — shouldn’t be the first resort! _Kaffas_ , man, you’re thinking like a blood mage!”

Cullen doesn’t just flinch at the jab, he recoils. The triumph he feels at a particularly clever jibe is quickly overtaken by guilt at the stricken look on the other man’s face.

“There is a way.” A pained voice cuts through the tension, and Dorian turns around to find Roderick struggling to sit up in the chair he’s slumped over in. He goes to help automatically, easing the Chancellor upright. “The summer path, behind the Chantry. I made the pilgrimage… she… Andraste must have shown me just for this moment. So I could tell… you. Herald…” With a sudden burst of energy, he stands up, sways on the spot, and doubles over. Blood leaks from his lips. He wraps the Chancellor’s arm around his shoulders and whispers, “Hold on, dear man. You need to show us the path, remember?”

Roderick nods.

“Go,” Irene orders. “Everyone, go.”

Cullen pales. “But Herald, how will you—”

She half-grins, half-snarls. While not many things frighten Dorian anymore, this does. This woman is a force to be reckoned with. “Don’t worry. I’ll make him work for it.”

Then she is gone, bursting out the doors with a roar. Alone. A few of the gathered people step forward as if to follow, but the woman in purple waves them down. Roderick shuffles towards the back of the Chantry, Dorian supporting him but letting him lead. Cullen remains, staring at the doors, and as they pass Dorian hears him whisper, as if in prayer, “Let that thing hear you, Irene.”

~o~O~o~

It has been hours since Solas sent up the signal flare as they left the treeline and looked back at Haven. Hours since the trebuchet launched and the village was buried with the Herald in it. Hours of trudging through the wind-whipped snow in no discernible direction, though the sun has risen on a new day.

Hours since Dorian realized that Tacere had been right behind him for some time, face flushed not from the wind but from excitement. He had one hand on the side of a bronto, one of three some intrepid person managed to get out of Haven, and strapped into the beast’s saddle — along with supplies — was a man swaddled in so many blankets he was probably suffocating at that very moment. “Dori, love, meet Jule,” Tacere had said with a laugh, patting the fellow’s thigh. He was unconscious, and Dorian wondered how Tac had managed to get him up there. “He’s Irene’s brother.”

“Brother from another mother. He was always kind to her, even when he joined the templars and she didn’t. Funny that he would live longer.”

“Hush, Cole darling.”

Hmm. Dorian remembers this Cole’s words but not their voice. He can still recall Tacere’s. Strange. The more he thinks about it the worse his head feels, and Dorian quickly decides it’s not important. They’ve made camp now: a haphazard collection of tents and a central firepit. The storm has stopped, for now. Cullen and the purple woman — Leliana — have set up guard rotations and scouting operations for the area, but they, like everyone else, are going through the motions.

The Herald is dead.

Worse, the Elder One is alive. Dorian saw it for himself: the archdemon flying away as the avalanche swept into Haven. Everyone saw.

He sits and watches Roderick cling to life in the makeshift infirmary. The Chancellor is stubborn as well as brave. The Inquisition’s days are numbered, too, but they seem content to lie down and let death come early. Roderick is only lucid a fraction of the time, but when he is, he whispers his faith into the air, and it reaches Dorian’s ears. It’s not the Chant, though that comes too. It is when the dying man says that he must stay alive to witness the Herald’s return, that he has to look away.

A whistle sounds from back the way they came. Dorian looks up in time to see a streak of blue light shoot up into the sky and burst, lightning shooting out in all directions. It dissipates before it gets anywhere, but the thunderous bang echoes through the mountains.

Instantly the camp is on alert. Dorian leaps up too, dashing for the firepit. The advisors are there, barking orders, and he skids to a stop in front of Leliana. She seems the most sympathetic. “I know that magic! It’s Tevinter in origin, but used to signal rescues.”

“Rescues?” Leliana repeats, sharp eyes flicking towards where the flare disappeared.

“Yes. Purely cosmetic, designed to draw attention without setting anything on fire.”

“It’s Irene,” Tacere says, appearing behind him. “And a friend.” The rogue is grinning, hands tucked into his armor. “We should probably go find ‘em. Takes a lot to get him to admit he needs help.”

“How do you—” Cullen starts, but Tacere is already zipping off with a giggle. Cullen and Cassandra exchange looks; Cassandra makes a disgusted noise and runs after Tacere. A hopeful smile — that he’s probably not even aware he’s making — spreads across Cullen’s face, and then he is following too. Dorian throws up his hands and rounds out the search party; _someone_ has to keep an eye on these idiots.

~o~O~o~

No more flares come, but after a few minutes dashing through the snow, Dorian spies a faint green light ahead. _It can’t be a rift, there weren’t any on the way up_. Cullen and Cassandra slow down when they see it, but Tacere speeds up, laughing with abandon. They lose sight of him around a sharp bend in the slot-like mountain pass.

Dorian draws level with the Commander and the Seeker, and unhooks his staff. Anything that makes Tac happy is probably a day-ruiner at the least.

They turn the corner and nearly run straight into the most powerful ward unaided by blood magic that Dorian has ever seen, a bubble that looks more like green-tinted glass than a magical barrier.

And surrounding the ward is a pack of over a dozen wolves. Thin and mangy, drooling from their desperation, they circle their prey.

Cullen and Cassandra have their swords drawn in a blink, while Dorian throws a hasty barrier over them. Tacere — _where is that blasted rogue?_ — Tacere has disappeared, but Dorian wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still around somewhere. A figure is barely visible in the center of the ward, and Dorian only sees him when he shifts slightly and calls out, voice muffled, “Who’s there?”

Cassandra opens her mouth to answer, but then the first wolf spots them and lets out a growl. The others turn as one, eyes glinting in the pale light of the ward.

Dorian lobs a fireball straight at the closest wolf. It leaps back, but not fast enough to avoid the fire catching on its legs, and the rest of the pack spreads out as it howls in agony. They don’t run, however, and he curses. Normally, any amount of fire is enough to scare wolves away, even when they have the advantage of numbers. Something is wrong.

The pack splits, circling, and Cullen and Cassandra move to put Dorian between them. For a few seconds all is still, then something ripples through the pack. A signal.

A whip-thin wolf leaps straight for Dorian, and he steps back only to feel another behind him, snapping at his robes. He turns to keep his back to Cullen’s, lightning arcing from his hands to either side. Smoke from burning fur chokes the air.

Cullen bellows a war cry, bashing one in the snout with his shield. Cassandra’s sword flashes, face set in a snarl of her own. Wolves crowd their legs, biting anything they can. Dorian kicks one latched onto Cullen’s forearm, and it drops with a yelp, only to be caught by the Commander’s sword. Cullen nods at him and spares a glance at his dented bracer before launching himself back into the fray.

“ _Mon chéri!_ ” Tac trills, and Dorian glances up. One wolf has hung back, lingering by the ward. The leader. This one is huge, larger than the others by far, and even across the battlefield Doian can see that its eyes are no normal color, but red as fresh blood. A crimson sheen shimmers over its fur.

It’s possessed.

And then it’s not, as Tac reappears from stealth above it, mid-leap, and drives his dagger into the back of its skull.

It crumples, and as the red dims in its eyes the remaining wolves each shudder and cry out, coming back to their senses. They flee down the mountain, toward Haven’s smoking ruins, like the wrath of the Maker is upon them.

“Was that _thing_ … possessed by a demon?” Cassandra asks. “How?”

The mystery man inside the ward, who Dorian had quite forgotten about, answers. “Lots of weird things have been happening of late, haven’t you noticed?” He pauses. “Now, who are you?” Dorian squints through the barrier, but can’t make out anything beyond a fuzzy outline of someone who is either very short or kneeling.

Cassandra scowls and opens her mouth to reply.

“Ah, _mon trésor!_ I’ve brought help!” Tacere calls, tugging his dagger out of the alpha wolf’s head.

“Tac?” the man asks, voice a mix of revolted and unsurprised. “Of course it is.” The ward contracts, the mana sustaining it petering out, then pops as the energy cuts off entirely. The man — a thin, sharp-boned, and decidedly unfashionable Tevinter mage in brown traveling leathers, carrying a staff that is little more than an oversized stick — is kneeling over Irene, who lies still as death on the snow. His ink-dark hair is long, held in a ponytail at the base of his neck. Icy blue eyes flick towards them, narrowing suspiciously.

Dorian feels he should know him, but he is only barely familiar.

“My darling, my love! These are members of the esteemed Inquisition,” Tacere trills after a beat, clapping his hands and skipping over. The mage rolls his eyes but shifts back, letting Cassandra approach — though she does so carefully, watching his hands — and bend to examine the fallen Herald.

Dorian and Cullen drift closer as well, and that is when the mage looks up and sees the Commander. He tenses, nostrils flaring. At that moment, Dorian is very glad looks can’t kill, or Cullen would be dead on the spot. And that would be a waste. Cullen stops short, brows drawing down when he notices the open hostility on the part of the as-yet-unnamed mage.

“Do you… know each other?” Dorian says at last, when the staring contest — confused memory-searching by one party, simmering rage by the other — has dragged on far too long.

“I don’t—” Cullen starts.

“Of course you don’t,” the mage scoffs. He turns to Cassandra, who is gathering Irene in her arms. “Tac and I are old… acquaintances. Extended family.” Cullen starts forward to help Cassandra, but the mage leaps to his feet and points at him. He stops. “ _You_ ,” the mage snarls, “are Knight-Captain Cullen Stanton Rutherford of the Gallows, the templar who stood by while Meredith stole the souls of innocent mages and looked the other way while Hawke gave us all a bad name. _Now_ do you remember?”

Cullen opens his mouth and closes it again several times, and a strange wave of outrage washes over Dorian. For his fellow Tevinter mage, yes, but mostly for _Cullen_ — and Dorian has no idea why he feels the need to protect the Commander of the Inquisition like a kicked puppy. “Now now,” he interjects, “we can all gleefully unearth each others’ sordid pasts later. Our dear Herald doesn’t look well.”

That would be an understatement. As Cassandra carries Irene past them, intent on the camp, Dorian realizes the situation is a great deal worse than he thought. Irene’s face is bloodless, her nose has a blue tinge, and there’s a scrape on her right cheek ringed with frost. Purple bruises in the shape of unnaturally long fingers decorate her left wrist, where the mark flickers dully. Something sundered her chestplate, too, and the hole’s edges are blackened, burnt by magefire. But she is alive, or Cassandra would not be so determined. She is _alive_.

Cullen looks at her and discards whatever he had decided to say, charging ahead toward the camp without a word. Cassandra follows, a great deal slower from her burden, but she still leaves the rest of them in the dust. Or rather, snow.

Some of the tension dissipates. Some.

Dorian glances back just as his fellow mage Fade-steps to his side. The spell is notoriously difficult to master, but his technique is precise, controlled. It jogs his memory, but he has to be sure.

“Ah, hello,” he says, keeping his tone light. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”


	8. Leliana

> _There are secrets that we still have left to find_  
>  _There have been mysteries from the beginning of time_  
>  — “The Riddle”, Five For Fighting

* * *

Dorian and Tacere were both right: Cullen arrives back not half an hour after they set out, shouting orders to clear a tent for the Herald. He is wild-eyed and out of breath — the withdrawals have not been treating him kindly, especially under so much stress. He looks like he might collapse, so Leliana takes over, forcing him to at least take a seat in the command tent. She sends Mother Giselle his way.

She then rounds up Vivienne and Solas, as well as the surgeon. Cassandra comes in shortly, and Irene is swept off to the tent. “We will be a moment, my dear,” the First Enchanter says, closing the flap in Cassandra’s face. Leliana leads the Seeker back toward the command tent. There is nothing more they can do, except…

“Where did the other two run off to?”

“Tacere and Dorian were right behind us,” Cassandra says, eyes narrowing. “I left them behind, I did not think…”

Then she explains what they came across and Leliana frowns. A possessed wolf? Demons are rarely attracted to animals, as they have little of interest to them. This kind of thing usually only happens when mages force demons to use beasts as hosts. And who is this mysterious stranger? How did he find the Herald?

A shout comes from the perimeter. They’ve returned, and Leliana immediately notices three things.

One, the newcomer and Dorian are in a hushed, if heated discussion, heads bent together. Tacere strolls along beside them, whistling. Two, the other Tevinter mage isn’t dressed oddly. His clothes are so nondescript it could only be a conscious choice. Three, his face is both familiar and foreign, like a memory with a few details subtly changed.

“He told you he and Tacere were extended family?” she murmurs to Cassandra, watching the group approach. At the Seeker’s nod, she continues, “I think I know who our new friend is.”

She strides forward to intercept them. “I understand you saved our Herald and sent up that flare,” she says. He’s wary when confronted, eyes darting everywhere, seeing everything. She moves in for the kill. With a gracious smile, she inclines her head and says, “You must be Caius.”

He flinches, stepping back with one foot as if by reflex, but he stops there. “I am,” he says carefully.

“Your sister-in-law told us about you,” Josephine says from outside the command tent, a few paces away. “It is a pleasure to finally meet.” Dear, sweet Josephine, always trying to make people comfortable.

Caius frowns. “And what exactly did she say?”

“Not much. Merely that she came to the Conclave looking for you.” Josephine doesn’t mention the other part, the part with the patricide. But Josephine has the best face for bluffing of all of them.

He lets out a sigh. “Yes. The Conclave. I was supposed to be there.” He closes his eyes, only a flicker of grief passing over his face — but Leliana sees it, and it is enough. Survivor’s guilt. Maker, she knows it too well. “I would rather not tell that story more than once.”

Leliana nods. “When Irene wakes, then.”

“If only—” he cuts off, shaking his head and rubbing his temples. “I fear I would be more hindrance than help in there. By your leave, then.” He does not actually wait for their leave, and stalks off. Tacere has long since wandered over to the haphazard infirmary to settle by Julien’s side again, and Caius joins him. That leaves only Dorian, who coughs awkwardly and remarks, “Such a strange fellow,” before returning to the Chancellor. Somehow he’s taken responsibility for Roderick, though as far as Leliana knows no one asked him to. It is good that he has someone looking out for him.

Mother Giselle emerges from the tent behind Josephine, shaking her head. She waves Leliana and Cassandra over. “He is troubled, and I do not know how much my words helped. I believe an ear from those who have been by his side far longer than I would be best.”

Leliana nods, glancing at Cassandra. Her faith has been shaken, but the Seeker has clung ever more firmly to the Maker in recent months. Perhaps if Cassandra did most of the talking…

Mercifully, the Seeker seems to understand her glance, and leads the way.

They find Cullen with his head in his hands in the corner of the tent. He hears them come in, and when he looks up he’s free of tears. Good; Leliana would hate to see him cry unless she were the one to prompt it. She hates seeing anyone cry unless she’s the cause. Something like a mix of grief and self-hatred lingers in that honey gaze, though. This can’t just be from finding the Herald, can it? No, she remembers, Cullen was in charge of the defense, and so many were lost at Haven.

“This isn’t about what that mage said to you?” Cassandra says, not unkindly but not gently either. The Seeker doesn’t do gentle.

“Not— not entirely,” Cullen admits, voice rough, “though it is yet another way in which I have failed to protect those I’m supposed to.” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He didn’t manage to grab his pomade from Haven, and it’s starting to curl again. “I remember now. He was one of a few apostates caught in the months running up to the Kirkwall Annulment. It didn’t seem— Maker’s breath, it didn’t seem important at the time. We’d brought him in, an apostate from the wilds. There was another, but he escaped. Irene’s husband, must have been. In any case, it was obvious Caius had never been to a Circle before. The only reason he wasn’t made Tranquil, at the height of the madness, was that he made no trouble at all. Kept his head down. He must’ve slipped away in the chaos, but we had no way of knowing for sure. So many died…”

And, according to all accounts, every last phylactery had been destroyed in the Annulment, a fact that made it all too easy for mages who escaped the immediate danger to keep running.

“I… I will speak to him, try to make amends.”

“All right,” Cassandra says. “And before you get it in your head, you were not responsible for what happened at Haven. If anything, you saved many lives with your trebuchets. To think of defense when the rest of us had become complacent in victory… Cullen, it was not your fault. Should you need confirmation, Irene will wake soon. We are still going forward with that, correct?”

The others may miss it in the dimly lit tent, but Leliana swears Cullen’s cheeks, already flushed from his story, darken just a little bit more at the Herald’s name.

~o~O~o~

Leliana leaves the tent; Cassandra had seemed to want to talk with Cullen further, and while the whole conversation was intriguing, Leliana makes the calculated risk to let them have their conversation. If their Commander falls apart, her curiosity will have been for naught.

“We are still going to name Irene Inquisitor, yes?” Josephine says as they walk across to the central firepit. The war table wasn’t saved, and many reports were lost, but what they do have now that wasn’t there an hour ago is hope. Now, Leliana knows, they will have the luxury of arguing again. She almost looks forward to it. That is, if Cullen can muster the will to argue. He is her favorite person to roll her eyes at, after all. His more idiotic moments are almost funny. And his lack of finesse is legendary.

“I hope so,” Leliana says. “I would have hoped for someone less like a charging bull, but she’s shown a surprising amount of adaptability to her role as Herald.”

“She’s smarter than any of us give her credit for, it’s true. I do wonder how she would fare at the Game, given a little training. She won’t like it but— ah?”

At Julien’s bedside, Caius and Tacere have been talking, but then the Tevinter leaps up and storms away toward the edge of camp. Leliana almost follows him, but he stops within sight, staring out into the snow with his arms crossed.

“He asked, but he did not want to hear,” Tacere says softly, and when Leliana looks at him the elf is staring back, amber eyes glowing in the encroaching dark. He tilts his head, so much like a crow that Leliana wonders where her own are now. She sent them away at the first sign of attack, but they have yet to return. “How must it feel to be dead? Could anyone alive survive it?”

She deals in riddles but does not have the patience to figure out what that means right now; it is enough of a challenge with Cole — and just because Leliana has yet to see the spirit after the attack does not mean he isn’t here, too. “Will there be a problem?” she asks instead.

Tacere looks away, stares at Caius’ back for a long moment. His hand is on Julien’s, stroking circles into the templar’s palm. It has been many days since Irene found him at Therinfal, and he still hasn’t woken. “He is afraid, and grieving in his own way,” Tacere says finally. “Hmm. Is not the whole world afraid, in one way or another? But he has never taken uncertainty well. Much like Irene, he is best when there is a problem to solve, and being told the problem is gone… No, Sister. He will make no trouble. Oh, he will posture, but he is ultimately harmless to anyone but himself.”

“Is that so?”

“Blood sacrifice? Demons?” Tacere smiles again, too wide. “Ah, ah. Despair has been hunting him for years now. He has not broken. Too much pride, though that one has yet to notice. Dear Sister, sweet Sister, the hounds are too concerned with racing each other to notice that the fox has his own teeth.”

Leliana pauses, but Tacere does not drop the smile. “You’ll forgive me if I need to ask him myself,” she murmurs.

Tacere dips into an elegant bow fit for court — while still seated — and blows her a kiss.

Something strange is going on here, and it bothers her that all of her efforts into digging up Irene’s past missed this. The murder was the biggest one, but that her brother-in-law was alive the whole time — she would have liked to know that. Irene never asked her to find Caius, apparently believing him dead. She turns away and approaches him, slipping into her old habits as she does so. She makes no sound, of that she is sure, but before she can hail him he sighs and lets his arms drop to his sides. He doesn’t turn, but speaks lowly if clearly into the dusk.

“What do you want now, Tac? I need — why? Why would they do that?” His voice cracks on the question, and he hugs himself against the chill.

“Do what?” Leliana asks, keeping her voice neutral, soft.

Caius still startles, whirling around with lightning crackling in his palms. He recognizes her, though, and the sparks dissipate. “Maker, don’t do that. You sound just like Tac when he’s trying to sneak up on me.”

“I wasn’t aware I sounded like anything.”

He scoffs. “He said the exact same thing the first time I caught him. But with a lot more pouting. Stupid sneaky types…” He continues mumbling under his breath, before cutting off and turning sharp blue eyes to her. “What do you want?”

“A lot of things,” she says easily. “From you, though? I want to know if you’re a threat.”

She’s expecting him to shrug off her query, as many have before — mage or not — but he shakes his head and grumbles, “Of course I am. I’m not intending to be, but the fact is… I am. You know that.”

Leliana cocks her head. “For being a mage?” She’s not about to blame him for that.

“For being—” Caius waves a hand to indicate himself, “—being a person. Particularly a noble one. We do tend to run roughshod over the commoners, but no one’s clamoring to lock up all the bluebloods.” He crosses his arms, twisting his lips like he’s just bitten into rancid meat. “I know exactly what you mean, though. Yes, I could potentially become possessed at any moment. I could go to sleep and wake up with glowing eyes and murderous intent. It’s been that way for a long time. Julien promised to kill me, years ago. I would hope any one of you would do the same.”

“Even Cullen?”

His eyes drop to the snow between them, expression darkening. “Even he. Perhaps I have been unfair, but my grudges are living things that I have fed for so long I have become attached to them. Do not ask me to forgive just yet, not when—” He cuts off, rubs the bridge of his nose in a gesture that reminds her of Cullen at his most aggravated.

She waits. He wants to tell her, she knows it.

Finally he shakes his head violently and grinds out, “The Tranquil are dead. All of them.”

She can’t stop her gasp, the words like a blow to the sternum. “All of them?”

“Every last one. Tac said the Venatori killed them — the ones who made it to Redcliffe, not left to die by the rebel mages when they left the Circles. They’re using their skulls in some kind of ritual.” His voice gets rougher as he continues, “Tac found a house full of them. Rows and rows of skulls on shelves. They’re dead.” He draws in a ragged breath, shakes his head again. “Do not ask me to forgive. Not now.”

She nods, but her mind is already whirling with this new puzzle. What could this ritual be for? She needs to know as soon as possible— but her crows are all gone. They’ll find her soon enough, no matter where she is.

“I wish to stay and help, though,” Caius says slowly. “I don’t like being scrutinized, but I do understand the reasoning behind it.”

“Unfortunately, it is not my decision to make.” Leliana does not say that it will be Irene’s, that all their hopes are pinned on the woman currently fighting for her life in a tent a short distance away. She thinks back on what the Herald said about her husband and brother-in-law. “I would like to know the story surrounding your exile, though.”

Caius huffs. “Oh, is that all?” Bitter sarcasm laces his voice. “Not even Irene knows those details. Colm hates— hated talking about it and so do I.”

She narrows her eyes. “You know I can easily find out the truth myself.”

“Oh, I doubt you’ll find even half the truth. And not easily. The Imperium thrives on lies.” Caius stands his ground, staring her down. “If my inclusion in this… Inquisition depends upon it, then I may share the relevant facts. But then, that’s not your decision to make.”

Her mask almost slips, damn the man. Her faith has been shaken again, this time in herself. She failed to recognize a threat until it was at their door. In any other circumstance she would have a subtle warning or witty retort ready, she thinks, but she is tired, too tired to continue this. Regardless, she will be watching.

Nothing will escape her notice again.

~o~O~o~

Cullen and Cassandra return from their heart-to-heart, the Seeker finally as tired as the rest of them and the Commander looking better than he has since before the attack. It is a temporary boost at best.

They group on the far side of the fire, near the tent where the Herald is still fighting. The faint hum of healing spells, and the glow that flickers through the thin hide walls, tell them that. Vivienne and Solas snipe at each other, but the mere fact that they are speaking at all is a sign Irene is getting better. Leliana sighs, shuffles the precious few reports she managed to save. So much was lost. So many were lost. But they have her.

She sweeps her gaze over the camp. To the left, the open-air cots with Julien and Roderick. They are both there because there is nothing left for the healers to do. Roderick will die soon — it is incredible that he hasn’t yet, perhaps a testament to the man’s stubbornness — and Julien, she is told, just has to wake up. The healers found no traces of red lyrium in him, but there was the infection, and possibly head trauma. It is a waiting game, at this point, to find out.

Straight ahead, a few of the myriad members of their bedraggled Inquisition have gathered around the fire. Varric is sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, listening with half an ear to Sera rant about… something. Whatever it is, she’s animated about it, waving her arms around and occasionally wiping at her runny nose. “Stupid, stupid daft tit, thinking she could just—” is the extent of what drifts over to Leliana, before Sera cuts off and presses the heels of her palms to her eyes, rubbing furiously. Varric nods and rests his chin on his knees, staring into the fire. He says something to the elf, but Leliana can’t catch it.

Mother Giselle crosses from the right, where she has been speaking to a few of the soldiers, to Chancellor Roderick’s bedside, and Leliana knows. Flissa approaches as well, steps shy, and draws Dorian away while Mother Giselle gives the last comforts to Roderick. Leliana had heard the Vint had rescued a citizen, but hadn’t thought to ask who. Dorian rises higher in her esteem.

“The Chancellor is dead,” she murmurs to no one. Cullen sighs and rubs his nose.

Vivienne chooses that moment to sweep aside the flap, stare imperiously at the advisors, and declare, “The Herald is stable.”

“Her injuries…?” Josephine asks.

“She will keep her nose, but the scarring will be extensive. Full range of movement should return within the week. She will fight again.”

Vivienne moves away from the tent, presumably off to find rest, robe-dress swishing around her legs. Cullen starts forward, pauses, glances back. Leliana rolls her eyes and moves ahead of him, ducking into the tent without preamble. Dear Maker, the man is about as subtle as a druffalo.

Within, Irene lies prone on the cot. The surgeon is in the corner, gathering her tools and putting them away. Solas is busy arranging the blankets around and over Irene, careful not to brush over the neatly-stitched gash on her chest. It is maybe a handspan from end to end, and the flesh that is sewn together is pink, new. The elf casts a spell under her when he is done, the marks glowing crimson then fading to barely visible. A warming rune. After how close Irene came to freezing to death…

The jagged patch of scar tissue on the Herald’s cheek has changed color: no longer blue and black on the edges but a dark red that will eventually fade to match the rest of her skin, with time. She is still pale, but not alarmingly so. Her nose, crooked and ill-healed from some injury long before they met, is at least whole. Thank the Maker for victories large and small.

The surgeon leaves quietly, and the others file in, circling Irene. Solas glances at them, tilting his head. “I put her under a spell to keep her from thrashing while we worked on her wounds. I can remove it and wake her. It will have no ill effect on her recovery.”

Leliana nods, and Solas snaps his fingers before leaving as well.

It is a moment before anything happens, but then Irene groans and shifts, tossing her head. She moves to feel her chest, but Josephine grabs her hand and holds it gently while Leliana leans forward and says, “Herald?”

Irene’s eyes snap open and she jolts up, dislodging the furs and nearly headbutting the Spymaster. “Shit, shit!” she gasps, jerking her hand out of Josephine’s grip and running it through her sweat-soaked hair. Then she lifts the other and stares at the mark. Her shoulders tremble.

“It’s not… I thought I was dead,” she whispers, voice cracking and breaking like ice beneath their feet. Twisting her head, she fixes Cassandra with an almost pitying look. “The throne of the gods was empty.”

“Pardon?” Cullen says, even as Leliana shifts around to half-kneel on the cot and grip Irene by her shoulders. She doesn’t shake them, but her touch seems to ground Irene, who closes her mouth and takes a deep breath through her nose. “Herald. Irene. What happened down there? Who is the Elder One?”

Exhaling, Irene begins her tale.


	9. Julien

> _I’m waking up at the start of the end of the world_  
>  _But it’s feeling just like every other morning before_  
>  — “How Far We've Come”, Matchbox Twenty

* * *

Julien surfaces from the darkness, smoothly, swiftly. He is too aware that he is not where he should be, and the sensation is something like falling asleep on a caravan in the Hinterlands and waking up on a boat off Rivain. Disorienting, but he does not gasp or open his eyes. The air on his face feels alpine, little needles pricking his cheeks, and the rest of him, save his right hand, is wrapped up in a heavy blanket that traps his sweat against his skin. He is not in his armor, and he can’t remember getting out of it. He can’t think of why he would get out of it, with things as dire as they are. Unless he is dead. Then why is he cold? The Chant was never specific about these things.

“…taking so long?”

“Ree-Ree? I imagine she’s telling them how she died and came back to life. Oh, to be a fly on that wall…!”

A long pause, and an image presses itself under his eyelids: russet strands shifting, sliding down to hang free as that face tilts sideways, curiosity or mania or sadistic glee in luminescent eyes — he can’t know, now, it has been too long and who can predict the emotion of the moment? He wants to sit up and check, though he can’t bring himself that kind of pain again.

But Tacere doesn’t sound like any of those as he sighs and adds quietly, “It’s always going to hurt.”

“How practical of you.”

“Ha. I have my moments, lordling. I think this is the first, but still. A moment.”

Caius — and that is strange in itself: he has always made a point of actively avoiding Tacere before, as his personality and the rogue’s are oil and water, if not oil and fire — huffs.

“You know, you did a fabulous job swooping in to save the day, _mon ange_.”

“I do not ‘swoop’. I was coming anyway. It’s just magic.”

“Mm-hm. Some would call it blood magic.”

“How do you— Don’t answer that. It’s blood magic like a phylactery is blood magic. Less so because it was with _consent_.”

A warm hand finds his own, and clever fingers trace circles in his palm. “Ah, you do not have to convince _me_ , darling. I do wonder if they will think to ask, though.”

He huffs again. “If it does come up, it’ll be during the _other_ interrogation, I think. Something tells me this lot is lousy with them. Interrogations.”

“I’m sure that lovely redhead has some ideas on how to make you talk.”

Another pause, undoubtedly while Caius rolls his eyes. When he does speak it is with an ironic lilt. “Yes, she’ll have the other one break me in half.”

“Cassandra? She’s a teddy bear.”

“That’s you want her to be, not what she is. If anything, she’s an actual bear.”

“What I want is to climb that like a tree. Wow.” The fingers pause their strokes, slip up to lay across his wrist. He realizes what Tac is doing just as the elf says, smile evident in his voice, “Not that I would dream of leaving you for the lady Seeker, my dear Julie.”

Julien doesn’t bother playing dumb. He pulls his hand back, and tucks it into his cocoon before the absence of Tac’s warmth can convince him to return it. When he opens his eyes a moment later the first thing he sees is the dark cloth canopy directly above, and a strip of star-scattered sky further right. A brilliant light hovers at the edge of his vision, and as he slowly sits up — aware, suddenly, of the pull of stitches in his abdomen — it resolves itself as a wisp, floating over Caius’ head. The mage has crow’s feet now, he notes; it hasn’t been that long since they last met but he seems so much older, so much more like a corpse. The harsh illumination doesn’t help with the bloodless impression.

Caius’ lips twitch, pressed thin, and he shifts on his stool. The motion draws Julien’s eyes past him. They are in a camp, not far from a roaring fire that spits embers up into the night. Beyond, he can barely make out tents, the shadow of a guard stalking between the rows. A few people are gathered around the fire, but it is late, too late for more than whispers. Slush, trampled from snow by the tromp of many booted feet, clings to the ground; this and the temperature tell him that he has been either moved a great distance west, into the Frostbacks, or asleep for a month or more.

“How long?” he asks hoarsely.

With a shrug, Caius glances left, and Julien steels himself to meet Tac’s unnervingly bright eyes. Looking doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would, but the blissful, self-satisfied expression on the elf’s face _does_. Julien clenches his jaw. _Could he have forgotten?_

“I actually don’t know,” Tacere says breezily. “I joined this adventuring party, ah… last night? Ree-Ree could tell you.” He twirls a lock of hair around his finger, and Julien has to force himself to refocus.

“She’s still occupied with her advisors.”

Thank the Maker Caius is here — while his presence won’t stop Tac from flirting, it will keep Julien from giving in. Hopefully. But then the full weight of the mage’s words sinks in — Irene. His sister writing him after years of believing contact too dangerous, telling him about her new title, her new burden, her new _advisors_. His reply, all but begging for help.

“Julien?” It’s Caius, surprisingly, leaning forward to pin him with his eyes. “Julien, what do you remember?”

“I… it doesn’t matter. I need—” He tries to wriggle out of the blanket, and his abdomen twinges, a spike of pain shooting through his stomach.

The mage stands up, head brushing the canopy, and deftly frees him from the cocoon. Instantly the cold air rushes over his sweat-soaked underclothes. He shivers, but it’s better than being trapped. He lays his head back — the pillow is lumpy and smells, oddly enough, of lyrium — and takes stock of his body. A blossoming headache in his left temple, but that’s to be expected. His mouth is dry, and his stomach is hollow. _All normal_.

“I remember red.” He hadn’t meant to speak aloud but can’t take the words back; the only thing to do is continue. “Lucius was trying to get everyone on the new lyrium. Started with the officers and worked down, which is why we weren’t able to fight back when we realized something was wrong. If our commanders said everything was fine…”

“Templars were never very good at disobeying orders?” Caius supplies, and though it is phrased as a question Julien knows he’s just being polite.

Tacere cackles. “Didn’t get that promotion, did you Julie?”

Julien scowls and sinks further into the bed. _No, I didn’t. Thank the Maker._

“I need to see my sister,” he says. Irene will be a comfort, in her own way. It has been far too long, and she’s the only family left that cares to be a relation. He thinks of Lord Trevelyan — he’d gotten into the habit of thinking of his father by his title, all the easier to maintain the distance required of a bastard — whether he knows, whether he will try once more to mold Irene into the perfect daughter now that she is the Herald. More likely, he’ll simply take credit. _Oh yes, that’s my dear Irene, I never once tried to control anything about her, never drove her to drink…_

“She doesn’t know I’m here yet, unless they’ve told her,” Caius says, making to stand again. “Maybe I should—”

Quick as lightning, Tac leaps up and bounds off towards a tent set apart from the others. He chatters at the guard stationed there for a second then barges past him.

“Ugh, _Tac_ ,” Caius mutters, shaking his head and sinking back down. Julien rather agrees.

There’s a commotion from inside the tent, and Tac reappears, shoved out by a stern woman with short hair and Seeker armor. She glowers from the entrance, arms crossed, and refuses to budge before Tac’s wheedling. Julien admires her tenacity.

“Let me go! Julien? Julien!” Irene staggers from the tent, struggling to break free of the hands grasping at her arms — an armored man with unruly blond curls and a petite brunette in an impractically ruffled dress are trying to hold her back. Julien can see why — his sister is a bloody mess, face scarred up from frostbite and a fresh-stitched wound peeking out from the fur blanket draped around her shoulders. She doesn’t seem to notice or mind the cold, or that a few minor cuts on her right arm are steadily dripping, reopened by her movement.

“Merciful Maker,” Caius breathes. Julien has never heard him invoke the Maker or his Bride before, and glances towards the mage just as he rises, ducking out from under the canopy and taking a cautious step toward the still-struggling Irene. “She’s going to hurt herself—”

Irene gets loose of the brunette, wrenching her left arm away with clenched teeth, and the woman, unbalanced, falls flat on her arse in the slush. “Josephine!” shouts the man, grip slacking enough that Irene is able to break free, and stumble clear of the tangle. She makes it halfway to Julien, staggering like a very determined drunkard (and Julien hates the simile the instant it crosses his mind) before she has to stop, clutching her side and panting.

“Idiot,” says Caius, abandoning all caution. He puts his hand on Irene’s heaving back and bends to look at her face. Behind them the advisors look ready to interfere, the lone man opening his mouth and shouldering forward. Caius whips his head around in that bird-like way of his and snaps, “I’m not going to hurt her. Help me get her to the other cot. And I need food and water.”

They hesitate. Julien pushes himself up some more and swings his legs over the edge, leaning with his elbows on his knees as the world tilts dangerously. Tac reappears, trying to help, but Julien ignores him. “Maker’s sake, just do it,” he says wearily.

That spurs them into action. The Seeker — Cassandra, Tac had called her — comes over to help Irene the rest of the way, to the empty cot on the other side of Julien, while the others disperse. Caius shoots him a glare with no heat — he’s full of gestures like these, a facade that will fool no one — and mutters about useless Southerners, and Julien shrugs because he knows the complaint is solid but there isn’t anything he can do about it without talking over him even more, and he’s done and seen enough of that already. At least Caius didn’t call him templar, with the sneer. He’s fairly certain he’s done with that life. He was never suited for it.

It’s a miracle he lasted as long as he did. It certainly wasn’t by a sense of duty to the Cause. He stayed with the others in Therinfal because he was — is — a coward. Too afraid to sneak off in the night, though there were opportunities. Too afraid of what awaited him out there, and what would happen to the few good, duty-bound templars left.

Yes, he’d had a mild crush on Delrin Barris. But it was just that, and hardly a good reason.

He huffs and flops back on the cot again. He is parched, famished and far more exhausted than he would like.

“You haven’t asked what happened,” Tac says, perching at his bedside once more.

“Thought you said you just joined up yesterday.”

Tac titters, but wisely shuts up. Josephine comes with the provisions — some for Julien too, bless her — and he swears the soup is the best he has ever tasted, even if the broth is thin and the little bits of meat within are tough. He’s not going to be choosy in the middle of the wilderness.

“Julien…” Irene breathes, and when he looks up she’s smiling, though it’s strained from exertion and something else, probably disbelief. She’s on her side facing him, hand extended. It is the unmarked one; the other she cradles close to her chest, bruises standing out on her skin.

He reaches, intending to clasp their palms as they used to do as children. The gap is too wide, and he barely brushes her fingers, but it is enough.

“Good to see you, sister.”

She cracks a pained smile, like she hasn’t truly done so in a very long time.

~o~O~o~

Hours later, long after their tales have been exchanged, Julien wakes again to more voices. He wasn’t aware he was falling asleep at all, but as he blinks into the pre-dawn gloom he finds much of his earlier exhaustion gone. Tac is curled up on the chair, dozing in a position that makes Julien’s neck ache by proxy. Someone has draped a blanket over him, but one ear is exposed to the cold, twitching madly as the voices rise and fall. Julien wouldn’t be certain the elf was asleep at all if he wasn’t drooling on his own shoulder.

“I don’t exactly feel very hopeful right now,” Irene snaps, loud enough to startle, and he turns over to find her sitting on the edge of her cot, glaring at a woman dressed in the red and white robes of the Chantry. The Mother is watching her with pity, even as Irene bristles.

“I know you don’t, and neither did many of these people,” the Mother soothes. She must be the same one Irene met in the Hinterlands. Giselle. “But they know what they saw: you, returning to them. They saw the Maker’s hand. Would you take that vision from them?”

Irene sighs, glancing away, toward Julien. The fire in her eyes burns low, but steady. She studies him for a long moment before replying to Mother Giselle.

“No.”

Giselle nods, but there is no satisfaction in it. “We have lost much, but in this darkest hour we must remember that the dawn will come.” She retreats, disappearing into the darkness, presumably to minister to other souls. That she tried with Irene is surprising, perhaps speaking to courage, or to unfamiliarity. What is more surprising is Irene’s response; his sister doesn’t like the philosophical questions, and has always had more faith in her own sword-arm than the Maker. That she actually conceded the point at all…

“How are you feeling?” he asks quietly.

“Like I’ve been run over by a herd of druffalo,” she says, picking at her bandages. Julien starts to murmur something sympathetic, but she’s not done. “And like all the illusions I clung to, that the fight was almost over, that I was making a difference, that if I did just one more task, one more, one more, I could grieve in peace — it’s all gone and I’m back to where I was when I woke up in that dungeon with this fucking thing on my hand—” The mark flares as she gestures wildly, and she grits her teeth in pain, hunching over.

Julien sits up faster than he probably should, but it’s over as suddenly as it began.

Irene lets out her breath in a low hiss, flexing her hand, and looks out across the fire, where the four advisors are in the middle of yet another argument. “And now it seems no one can make a decision without me.”

“You weren’t supposed to be the leader, but it’s what happened and they’re going to tear themselves and each other apart without someone to tell them what to do. Honestly, I’d rather it be you than anyone else at this point. You know the price of power. You won’t abuse it.”

She snorts, picking at her bandages again, and he grabs her hand before she unravels all the healers’ hard work. “Right,” she mutters darkly. “Because that went so well the last time anyone put me in charge of anything.”

“And you’ve learned from that, which makes you better than someone untested, or who has tasted power and found it intoxicating,” he retorts, tapping her hand gently to distract her from the dark path her mind seems determined to travel. _Maker_ , his sister has changed so much. Colm was her refuge, her rock, and without him she is lost. He just hopes his words can reach her.

Irene shrugs helplessly, and the silence stretches between them. The advisors have stopped bickering for the moment, but he doubts they are truly finished. Josephine and Leliana are talking quietly, while Cassandra studies what maps they managed to salvage and Cullen paces, gripping his sword’s pommel like a lifeline.

They are self-destructing, like he said. He isn’t sure how Irene is going to solve the immediate issue of where to go and what to do, but she should have a voice. A vote. Because they’re going to need a plan, and a place to go.

She hauls herself to her feet abruptly, so abruptly that Julien worries she will fall again, but she just crosses her arms, releasing a cloud of breath into the mountain air. The stars are cold and distant, but brilliant as ever, and he wonders what she is thinking as she stares up at them, tracing the constellations with her eyes; she steps out from under the tent a pace, the better to stare straight up as the stars fade before the coming dawn.

She stays standing like that, even as Mother Giselle emerges from the gloom again.

Her eyes are closed, her hands lifted halfway to prayer, singing soft but sure. It is a Chantry hymn, one Julien knows well, one most of the gathered people know well, and he is not surprised when Sister Nightingale joins in, then a few of the soldiers. By the next verse it seems the whole camp is awake, people streaming out from the rows of tents to crowd around, naked hope on every face. An impromptu chorus in the middle of nowhere. He can even pick out Leliana’s bard-trained lilt and Cullen’s surprisingly strong tenor among the others.

Irene has her back turned, but turns her head to listen on the last verse. Though he knows she has heard this hymn many times, she looks like she’s truly absorbing it in its entirety. Unlike him: he is immune to the power of it, it seems, dissecting its pieces.

_She needs this. You do not._

~o~O~o~

The elf called Solas — whose head must be freezing — calls Irene to the edge of the camp. His face is unreadable as they walk past, Irene’s still full of wonder.

A weight settles in Julien’s gut; he ate too much, probably. The crowd has dispersed and the advisors gather around the map again, considerably quieter now. They will still get nowhere, he knows.

“Well then,” Tac says, and Julien’s heart stutters. The elf stretches like a cat, yawning wide, and leaps up, discarding the blanket. “We’d better get you up, hm?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Tac winks at him. “You’d better.” He giggles at his own joke. “If we’re going anywhere, love, you can’t ride on a bronto the whole time. Those things give terrible saddle sores.”

Julien sighs into his hands. Tac has a point, but he does not want to do this right now — or, with Tac, ever. “Get Caius, then,” he groans, still covering his face. He knows Tac heard him, though, as the elf huffs dramatically and, when Julien looks up a few seconds later, he’s gone.

~o~O~o~

By the time Julien has managed to stand up and shuffle a few paces, Caius doing his level best to support him despite being half his size, Irene has returned and is in hushed conference with her advisors. Her movements as she speaks with them — sharp, jerky, hands going to her hips when they’re not gesturing wildly — would speak of anger to anyone else. But he knows her. She is hopeful. Ecstatic, even. Something has happened, an idea of where to go and what to do. Suggested by Solas, perhaps? Irene had described him somewhat, as she had all her companions up to this point, and he guesses if anyone knows a place for them, unclaimed by Ferelden or Orlais, it’s him. A self-taught mage, a Fade-walker who likes to poke around old ruins and consult the spirits that linger there.

Who knows what he has hidden up his sleeve.

“I don’t know if I should be here,” Caius murmurs as Julien settles back onto the cot. He’s gotten as far as he can go today, which is farther than he’d thought after being ill for so long. It aches to walk, but with the Maker’s favor he’ll make it to… wherever.

Caius, though. The mage is as high-strung as Julien has ever seen him, which is saying something. His hair is still mussed from sleep, but he is far from rested.

Julien does not have to ask what he means; though Caius is no more a threat to him than any other mage, it’s not like this Inquisition knows that. He is still painfully Tevinter. Still an altus, one step away from magister. Every action will be suspect. Julien cannot quite blame them; in their shoes, knowing what little they know, he would be suspicious too. Irene’s word and their dire circumstances are all that keep Caius safe, for the moment.

“That Spymaster of theirs was sniffing around,” Caius says, glancing toward the advisors. Standing a little farther back from her fellows, hands folded behind her, is the woman in purple known as Leliana, Sister Nightingale and former Left Hand of the Divine, according to Irene. “I doubt she’s done.”

“Where would you go?” It’s an honest question.

Caius blinks, and a little color returns to his cheeks. After a moment he lets out a long breath, watches it mist and dissipate. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? There’s nowhere left, not now that the rebel mages are corrupted. I’ve been on the run before, but it’s a lot harder on your own.”

Julien shakes his head. “Irene won’t let them do anything to you, you know that,” he says, as firmly as he can.

“I don’t know how much power she really holds here. They call her Herald of Andraste but do they see her as a leader or a symbol?” He chews his lip, thinking. “And… Colm is dead. Would she really be comfortable seeing his identical twin every day?”

He has a point with the first one, at least. “We’ll find out soon enough, when we get wherever we’re going. But even if she’s not comfortable, she has to be the one to say that you’re not welcome. You know her, she’ll want to confront it head-on.” At least, he hopes so. She could also throw herself into busy work, physical work, to avoid emotional tangles as long as possible.

Either way, an Irene who’ll throw her brother-in-law to the wolves is not an Irene he knows.


	10. Irene II

> _Like the stars chase the sun_  
>  _Over the glowing hill I will conquer_  
>  _Blood is running deep_  
>  _Some things never sleep_  
>  — “Queen of Peace”, Florence + the Machine

* * *

_Skyhold._

It is exactly what they need, exactly when they need it.

The journey takes weeks, their caravan of survivors winding their way through the Frostbacks slowly but surely, heading north. Through passes and across valleys, hunkering down in blizzards and stopping for a moment on a peak to take in the view of the world below, a world stepping into springtime now while around them it’s firmly winter.

They are lucky, too, because Irene does not want to deal with the avalanches that will become commonplace as the mountains warm.

The scouts keep them supplied with game, and the promise of a new home ahead fuels them. _Skyhold_. Solas had called it a ruined fortress, and she can only imagine the work that would go into making such a place livable. But as long as his promise holds true — that it is unclaimed by both Ferelden and Orlais, that it will serve them well and can support an influx of recruits too — she doesn’t care. It is the hope that keeps her and the rest of the Inquisition going.

 _You will lead them_ , Solas said. And she does. She stays at the front of the line, wading through snowdrifts and testing iced-over streams, following the paths Solas shows her. And when she pauses at the top of a pass and looks back, picking out the familiar faces making their way along behind, she knows purpose again — to lead this Inquisition, these people, in restoring order.

It’s not just the Breach anymore. It’s an army, and a plot, and this Corypheus behind both, and she will destroy them all.

~o~O~o~

Skyhold is certainly a work in progress, but she can see the shape of a home beneath the crumbling stone and rotted wood. The gates nearly give way beneath her hands as she pushes them open. She picks her way over fallen debris in the courtyard, studying the features. That corner, stables. Over here, room for healer’s tents and a training yard. Towers along the outer wall, stone steps leading up to the keep. Some of the glass windows remain; most are shattered, probably by storms over the ages.

“Will it do?” Solas asks, coming up beside her.

She snorts a laugh, feeling freer than she has in too long. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” She turns, watches the people come through the gates with awe and relief on their faces. Julien had been on a bronto most of the journey, still too weak to climb the passes even in the wake of other people to tromp down the snow, but he’s walking now, if slowly. Caius hovers at one elbow, while Tac skips along on the other side, chattering on about who knows what.

“Herald?” Cullen asks.

 _Oh yes. Orders._ She sweeps her eyes over Skyhold again. The keep is probably too dangerous to explore right now, not when they’re all so tired. “We’ll set up camp in the courtyard for now. Delegate soldiers to work on clearing out the rubble when we’re all rested. Section by section, I don’t want any accidents.”

“Of course, Herald.” He salutes and turns away, barking orders as he goes.

Irene sighs once he’s gone, rubbing her wrist where the bruises have long since faded but the phantom pain of her bones being ground together remains. They are recovering, but the Elder One is too. How many did he lose? That army seemed endless, even with the avalanches. Meanwhile, only a fraction of their numbers remain now. Every time she looked back at the top of a pass she counted the faces that weren’t there. As the injured died along the way, that number only grew.

But those that remain are here, looking at _her_ the same way they look at Skyhold.

What would Colm say, if he were here?

She has not missed how nervous Caius is around her now, around all of them, and it hurts to see him like that. He was a prideful, prickly man who would defend Colm to the gates of the Black City itself, but now he just seems exhausted and wary. Worn out.

Dorian, their other Tevinter mage, has kept to himself for the most part, but when she spots him on the edge of the crowd he’s talking to Varric. Amiably, it seems like, though he’s also half-frozen and looking longingly at the fire the soldiers have built. He hasn’t been in the South as long as Caius has.

“Hey, Stormy.” Varric grins as she approaches, and Dorian offers her a tired but genuine smile.

“What do you think?” She gestures to the walls around them. Sturdy walls, strong walls, if in need of repairs.

“It’ll do, certainly,” Dorian says. “This charming southern weather is doing wonders for my complexion, obviously, but so would getting out of the wind.”

“Another day or two,” she promises. “We have to make sure it’s safe first.”

“Oh yes, getting _this_ face crushed by a falling brick would be a travesty.” He winks at her while she snorts in disbelief and no small amount of amusement. Others may not recognize Dorian’s defense mechanism for what it is, but she knows exactly what he’s doing and she doesn’t mind. He’s not hurting anything.

“Oh, Stormy, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Varric says, like he’s not sure about what he’s doing, and that impression gives her pause — and him her full attention.

He draws her away to the far corner of the courtyard, closest to the keep. Hidden, but close by if someone were to shout for her. He perches on a pile of rubble and takes Bianca off his back. As he fiddles with the mechanisms, avoiding her eye, she wonders just what is going on.

“Varric. What is it?” she snaps after a minute of trying to wait it out. Well, no one ever said she was a patient woman.

The dwarf flinches, setting the crossbow down with a sheepish grimace. But then he sobers and says, “Stormy, you remember all that time ago when I said I didn’t know where Hawke was? I wasn’t exactly… telling the truth.”

She opens her mouth, but he stops her with a gesture. “I know, I know! I know. But the Seeker got it in her head that Hawke could help this little venture more than hurt it, and, well, I had to protect us all from that particular disaster. You know me, such a hero. Anyway, I have been keeping tabs on him. He was wandering Rivain and Antiva, doing odd jobs and more often than not leaving a corpse or two in his wake, but keeping a relatively low profile.” He pauses, absently rubbing something carved into Bianca’s frame. It looks like a flower, but Irene can’t be sure what kind. “That changed a few weeks ago. Word is he’s made his way to Tevinter and is trying his hand at becoming a magister.”

 _Oh, no_. “What? Why?”

Varric shrugs. “He’s told different stories to different people. Whatever it is, I doubt it’s rainbows and kittens. Hawke is _dangerous_. He’s charismatic, patient, and a powerful mage in his own right. And I believe he may eventually come after us — me, and the others from his Kirkwall days. The ones who survived, at least—”

“Let him try,” Irene snarls.

“—Which is why I’ve been sending letters for weeks now, trying to find the others. I’ve got two willing and able to come here and help the Inquisition in exchange for the safety of numbers. They could be here within a few weeks. I’m hoping the others will come around — particularly Aveline.”

“Aveline? The guard captain?”

“She’s still in Kirkwall, trying to keep order in a city that doesn’t want her and never appreciated her. I’ll keep trying. Just— please try to stop the Seeker from killing me before I can succeed, okay?”

“Yeah, I will. So who’s—”

“There you are!” Leliana comes around the corner and spots them, immediately jogging over. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” Irene and Varric say together.

Leliana narrows her eyes, but mercifully, files it away for later. “The advisors need to borrow you for a moment, Irene.”

A chill trickles down her spine, but she dutifully follows Leliana back to the courtyard.

~o~O~o~

Irene buries her face in her hands and tries valiantly to unclench her jaw. It is not, in fact, an emergency. The advisors are moving to make her official leader of the Inquisition, the _Inquisitor_ herself.

She probably should have seen this coming.

“If you’re willing, of course,” Josephine chirps, rounding off their explanation of what, exactly, they’re doing by making it seem like she has a true choice in the matter. The fact is, she doesn’t — she is too far invested in this “little venture” by now to decline. She has started thinking of them as her people, their failures as hers, their triumphs as hers. It’s a little alarming when she thinks about it, but then again she’s halfway to leader already.

It’s another title, but at least it’s better than Herald of Andraste. That cheers her up quite a bit. Inquisitor is a title earned; it denotes an action rather than a passive state of being.

She straightens, rolls her shoulders back as she was taught so many years ago. “I accept.”

There’s a ceremony, which is mercifully short, but the little gasp Josephine makes when she holds the heavy ceremonial sword one-handed over her head, and keeps it like that for the entire exchange, makes it more than worth it. She twirls it a bit when it’s all over, getting a feel for holding a different balance than her usual greatsword, and if she catches all three of them staring at her biceps while she does it — well.

It’s been a long time since anyone looked at her like that, with more appreciation than fear as the steel flashed within feet of them.

 _The last one was Colm_. She sighs and hands the sword off to Leliana. She doesn’t know if what she’s feeling is normal. Colm was — is — her first love. She never had infatuations as a teen like so many of the other Templar recruits, or even the other mercenaries after that. And though she loved Colm, she never…

 _Wait_. She did. That last night before the Conclave. The stars are different in the South, he’d said, pointing out the constellations as they laid side by side at their camp in the mountains. Turning her head she’d seen the firelight reflecting in his eyes and known. She’d wanted, for the first time in her life.

After, it remains a void until she wakes in the Chantry’s dungeon.

She’s never felt this acute loss before, doesn’t know how long it’s supposed to feel like she’s shattered into shards of glass. Does it matter? Perhaps she’ll never love again, if it took so long the first time. Perhaps her heart only had room for one.

~o~O~o~

Her sleep that night is restless, though she has a tent to herself. On the march she had insisted on sharing with Cassandra, as they had too many people for what they had salvaged from Haven. Now they have enough to go around, enough for all of the advisors to gang up on her. Inquisitor and all.

She throws up her hands, admits defeat. She does not say that she is never quite alone, not with her thoughts and her ghosts.

The next day she rises as early as she can get away with. She finds Cullen at their command table by the steps. As far as she can tell he never slept at all. She’d always wondered why Varric called him Curly, and now she sees why — his hair is a mess, and getting more so every time he runs his hands through it.

“And tell Rylen the bridge is the priority! We aren’t getting anything in with it the way it is now!” He shoos off the scout and turns to her, a bit of the exhaustion leaving his eyes. “I— Inquisitor,” he greets, almost saying her name.

Yes, he definitely likes her — she isn’t so naive that she can’t see it — but she doubts he will act on his own. Thank goodness. She’s not ready. “Irene’s fine, Commander,” she says. “You know I hate these titles. I can just about barely tolerate them in official settings.”

He blinks but recovers quickly, quirking a smile that accents the scar on his lip. She wonders where he got it from. “Then call me Cullen, Irene.”

“Of course. How are the soldiers and the supplies?”

“Both drained, but morale is up and the scouts report a lot of untapped resources in this area. Enough to keep us going and then some. I set people to start making repairs to the bridge and the courtyard, but it could take weeks to get to the rest.” He pauses to accept a report, whose messenger is gone as quickly as she arrived. “So many died, and many more are still injured.”

Irene nods, glancing back over the people — working, resting, talking among themselves — and counting one more time. “It could be much worse. If we could compensate their families, and hold a memorial, I think it would help the survivors too.” She turns back to Cullen. “Anything else?”

“Leliana’s crows have returned. She and the Ambassador are updating our contacts on the situation. The remaining Templar forces are making their way here as well, and they will be a boon on the reconstruction effort. Oh, and we received a follow-up report from our scouts in the Hinterlands that may interest you.” He pulls a paper from the woefully-diminished pile on the table and hands it to her.

She glances down at it. The handwriting is cramped, but it’s addressed to Sister Nightingale. The first paragraph talks about the rebel mages disappearing from Redcliffe — something Dorian had told her in the attack on Haven, when she saw the mages swarm down the mountains with her own eyes. She had dueled Fiona in Haven, and killed her. The former Grand Enchanter had been the one to sunder her chestplate, and was one of many things to nearly end her that awful night. “The rebel mages were corrupted. Don’t we already know this?”

“Not that. The scout didn’t know we knew, and that’s not the interesting bit. See there, in the last paragraph? There’s a Grey Warden in the Hinterlands, recruiting. So much of our paperwork was lost in the evacuation that we don’t have the original report, but Leliana remembers first hearing about this Warden shortly before you left for Val Royeaux. She suggested you find him?”

“Oh. She did. She was sure he would have information on the Wardens disappearing, but I…” She had been fixated on the immediate mission at hand and had wanted to get it done as fast as possible, and after that had forgotten entirely in favor of the Breach. She flushes; this kind of thing has happened before, but not in such a high-stakes situation.

Cullen nods when she doesn’t say any more. “He’s still there, still in the wilderness. Near Lake Luthias. Shouldn’t be too hard to find him — he’s conscripting.”

She gives the report back and puts her hands on her hips. “Well. I know where to go next, then.”

~o~O~o~

Two and a half weeks later, Irene is just glad to be home.

She walks her horse across the bridge, taking in the improvements that have been made to Skyhold in her absence. Finally, a stop to the accursed riding. Her ass is numb and her thighs are on fire.

A horn sounds from the battlements, where the Inquisition banners hang proudly. The soldiers already have the new reinforced gate open for her, and they salute as she goes by. A stableboy is there to take the horses (and surreptitiously steady her when she nearly falls over) and the advisors are waiting at the stairs to the keep by the time she finally makes her way over, wincing with every step. Blackwall offers his arm and she takes it because he needs her as much as she needs him.

“Maker’s breath!” Cullen swears when she’s finally hobbled over to them.

“They had a _dragon_ ,” Dorian groans as he helps Sera down from her horse, which seems happy to have her off its back.

“They?”

Dorian just shakes his head and stumbles past, headed straight for the tavern. Which wasn’t there when they left.

Sera follows him, mumbling something under her breath that Irene is happy she can’t hear.

“There’s no ‘they’, but there was a dragon,” Irene explains shortly.

“You fought a dragon? And won? Oh, the Chief is gonna like you.” This from a man she doesn’t recognize, who has apparently been hanging off to the side without her notice until now. He is wearing the armor of a mercenary, and an easy grin. “I’m Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi of the Bull’s Chargers. The leader of my company — that’s the Iron Bull — sent me to see about striking a deal with you, Your Worship.”

She winces. Not just from the title — it’s not a new one, but it has been thankfully rare thus far. It’s that he’s a mercenary. She knows she shouldn’t judge — she was one for a while after fleeing Ostwick, before she met Colm. On the day they met in Hasmal, she had just been kicked out of the company, having discovered they were working with slave traders along the Tevinter border. She had nearly been killed, all because she’d been deluded into thinking she was doing some good deeds and not selling her sword-arm to the highest bidder.

Well. The real reason she had been with the company in the first place was to die doing those good deeds, like rescuing people from bandits or something. Instead she had become the bandit. An accessory to the slave trade.

Then she had met Colm and left that life far behind.

“My lady?” Blackwall murmurs, pulling away slightly, and she realizes they have been all staring at her while she’s been staring at the Lieutenant.

“I— ah, sorry. I am very tired at the moment. Josephine, do we have a room for him to stay the night? I need to rest and think this over.”

“Certainly, Inquisitor. Lieutenant Aclassi—”

“Krem, please,” he says with a laugh.

“—right this way, if you please…”

They leave, Josephine the very picture of the gracious host, and the twinge of guilt for pushing him away is far eclipsed by the relief she feels when he’s gone.

Beside her, Blackwall shuffles awkwardly.

Leliana comes to their rescue. “Messere Blackwall! It is a pleasure to meet you. Our Ambassador was overseeing the guest accommodations but I’m sure we can fit you in somewhere.”

“Oh no, my lady, you don’t need to go to such lengths on my account—”

“Nonsense! Come along, let’s get you settled and then you can tell me all about what the Wardens are up to these days. I may have traveled with the Hero of Ferelden but since then I have become woefully out of date.”

Blackwall throws a panicked look over his shoulder as the Spymaster drags him away.

Irene tries to hide her smile, but she can tell she’s failing. Cullen doesn’t bother, sniggering like a schoolboy.

Then they are alone, her almost dead on her feet and him looking her over with concern. She is a mess, but it looks worse than it is, and they had plenty of poultices to soothe the worst of the burns. All that remains are a few holes in her underarmor, the singed ends of her braid, and a lot of soot she did not bother to wash off.

“Are you all right?” he asks gently.

She means to nod, but ends up shrugging instead. “Mostly exhausted. I need a bath, too, but I may just fall asleep while washing. Where’d my tent go?” Most of the tents are gone, actually, as is the command table at the base of the stairs.

“Your tent? No, we set up quarters for you last week. I will show you.”

The word ‘quarters’ in that context would normally send a chill up her spine, but she doesn’t have the energy to care. She follows him up the steps and into the keep, focusing on lifting her feet properly so she doesn’t land flat on her face. There’s still some rubble lying around, and a team is currently moving dining tables into the main hall. Varric has already claimed one by the fire, and he raises his pint to her as she passes by.

At the end of the hall is a dais, empty at the moment but there is a dark spot on the floor where a throne might have been. The windows behind are stained glass, the Inquisition’s emblem in gold in the center. Cullen climbs the dais and turns left, to an inconspicuous door on the side.

The room beyond is mostly a stairwell that winds around, and an empty space in the middle that she can’t discern the use for. At the top are three doors, two on one side of the landing and one on the other. Cullen produces a key and opens this last door, ushering her inside.

It is… big. Huge, actually, almost as large as the master bedroom in the Trevelyan estate she grew up in. _Too much space_ , she thinks, for what little currently occupies the room. The four-poster is not large enough to fill the emptiness, nor are the wardrobe and the bookshelf, nor is the ornate desk facing the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading out to the balcony.

She steps, cautiously, further into the room, trying to imagine herself in this space. Sleeping here. Working here. Living here. Would it be rude to reject it entirely? Probably, and ungrateful besides, as she cannot exactly say why it unnerves her so. She has always preferred another presence, and it has never been such a problem before. As a child, she simply snuck into her baby sister’s room and slept on the windowsill with a blanket. Said baby sister did not mind then, being a baby. Later, she went down to the servant’s quarters where Julien would roll his eyes and grumble but always let her fall asleep on his shoulder while he told her stories in the dark, because one of his bunkmates slept like the dead and the other was nearly deaf. She gave her maids such a scare the first time, but kept going.

Then she’d been alone for a year after Julien left for the Templars, one of the darkest times of her life for more reason than one. Since then, any period of solitude has been brief. From being a recruit at Ostwick to becoming a mercenary, to Colm, who never pushed and always knew without needing telling.

Who would know here?

She turns, realizes that Cullen hasn’t left, is still standing there with his mouth partway open like he’s dying to say something. After a moment he shakes his head as if discarding a thought and says, “If you wanted a bath there’s a rope by the bed you can pull. Or, there’s public baths near the gate when you’re rested. The meeting has been postponed to tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Cullen,” she says. It is still afternoon judging by the sunlight through the windows, giving her over half a day to rest.

He nods and hands her the key, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Within minutes she has collapsed on the bed in just her undertunic and leggings, pulling a pillow over her head and drifting off.

~o~O~o~

Irene awakens to a horn blasting from outside. It is not the short, welcome-home horn from the day before, but a longer blast that repeats. A warning.

She throws open a balcony door and rushes out, leaning over the edge to peer into the courtyard below. The soldiers are not quite in battle formation yet, but are certainly ready for anything, and she spots Cullen on the rampart, gesturing to Captain Rylen as the latter orders the soldiers to hold steady. Across the way, noncombatants are being herded into the keep by Leliana’s people, and Leliana herself is at the top of the stairs where Irene had been for her Inquisitor ceremony, bow held at her side, arrow nocked.

 _Shit_ , is all she can think as she ducks back inside and scoops up her discarded armor. Her sword is halfway under the bed, blade out, and she has just wrapped her hand around the grip when someone pounds on the door.

 _Shit_ , she thinks again, but it is Julien who calls, “Irene?”

Throwing the sword on the bed, she flings open the door for him and resumes buckling her armor. “Is it Venatori? How the fuck did they find us?!”

“It’s not Venatori, Irene,” he says, too much calm in his voice. She whirls, about to hit him because dammit, this is not a summer picnic, but he grabs her arm and says, still bloody serene, “Varric sent me. It’s his guests, but no one is listening to him. I need you to help me stop this before somebody gets hurt, and it’s not going to be them.”

It takes a moment for the words to get past her anger and her panic, but once they do, he must see it in her eyes because he lets her go. “Come on,” he throws over his shoulder, already halfway out the door.

She grabs her sword, just in case, and follows.

~o~O~o~

By the time they reach the ramparts, she has picked up Leliana, who takes one look at her coming and sprints to join her. Above the gate Varric is frantically trying to get Cullen to stand down, all the while being yelled at by Cassandra. The rest of her inner circle are gathered as well, most of them thoroughly confused.

“What the _fuck_ , Curly!” Varric cries, gesturing at the soldiers in neat formation below.

“You mean to tell me you knew?” roars Cassandra. She is a dangerous shade of red, a vein near her forehead bulging. Her arms are crossed, probably a subconscious check on her need to hit something.

“Of course I knew, but that’s not— would you just listen to me?!”

“You invited unknown actors here without informing any of us! What are we supposed to think, after Haven?” Cullen shouts. He is holding on to a modicum more control than Cassandra, but he is furious as well.

“They’re two guys! Two people is not an invading army! Andraste’s flaming knickers, you are blowing this way out of proportion!”

Cassandra snarls wordlessly and lunges for the dwarf, but Irene shoves her way between them, pushing the Seeker back. With a bit more force than intended — Cassandra falls, sprawling on the stone.

“Would you all shut up?!” Irene shouts, whipping around to glare at each of them. “This is not the time to be killing each other before our enemies can kill us!” When silence has reigned for a full five seconds, she takes a breath and turns to Varric. “Who are these people?”

“If you’d all stand down, you can see for yourself,” says Varric snidely. “But if you attack them, either of them, I cannot be responsible for their actions. Suffice to say, you will regret it.” He gestures at the rampart. It is too tall for him to see the riders approaching at a canter across the bridge, but Irene peers over.

Two of them, as Varric had said, wearing dark cloaks on dark horses in the late afternoon sun.

“Have your forces stand down, Cullen,” she orders. “Leliana, keep your people ready. Get Josephine out here. We will greet them as guests, and see what they have to say.”

Cullen sighs but relents, stalking off toward the courtyard. Leliana is happier by far, nodding to her deferentially before flitting away. And Cassandra…

Cassandra is still on the ground, looking at her with stark betrayal. Irene offers a hand, but she ignores it, rising on her own and straightening her armor with a huff and a scowl. “Cassandra,” Irene begins.

“Don’t.”

Irene can’t deal with her right now, so she doesn’t. She sighs sharply and turns around, jogging down the steps just as the gates begin to open for the new arrivals.

She sees now, as they pass through, that one horse is black, the other a very dark brown. Though they still wear their cloaks she can pick out the details — the rider on the brown horse is broad shouldered, and tall enough to give Julien a run for his money. She can see the shadows of his face under the hood. The other, meanwhile, is on the shorter side, lithe and utterly anonymous — he wears a scarf over the lower part of his face, and his head stays down to hide his eyes.

He is also not wearing any shoes, just footwraps.

The first man comes to a stop and swings off his horse. He lands with a clink of armor, armor that she catches sight of for a moment until the cloak settles again. It looks familiar. Almost like…

 _Templar_ , she realizes just before the cloak comes off, revealing the man beneath.

He has black hair and blue eyes, though that is where the similarities to Colm and Caius end. His blocky jaw is set as he glances around warily, and he is, as she saw earlier, huge — wide shoulders and thick biceps from training with a greatsword, tall frame from luck of the draw. He bears the Sword of Mercy crest proudly on armor polished to a sheen.

The second man — _elf_ , she thinks — leaps from his horse gracefully, still hidden beneath the cloak.

And several things happen in quick succession.

First, Varric shoves to the front of the crowd, a grin on his face that makes her realize he hasn’t been truly happy this whole time. “Hey, Junior, glad you could make it. And you, Fenris, though I should probably start calling you Broody again.”

Second, at Fenris’ name, Caius, who is leaning against the wall of the courtyard, far removed from the others, gasps loudly and jumps as if someone has lit him on fire.

Third, Fenris’ head turns. Slowly, but fast enough that no one has time to react before he spots Caius. And the instant after he does, he is glowing, lines lighting up all along his body, and the cloak is off and Fenris is past them all in a flash, a blur of white hair and green eyes with murderous intent.

He has Caius by the throat before anyone can so much as move, least of all her brother-in-law, pinned against the wall with one hand trying to stop Fenris choking him and the other clawing at the elf’s arm, half of which is in his chest.


	11. Fenris

> _Find the cost of freedom_  
>  _Buried in the ground_  
>  _Mother Earth will swallow you_  
>  _Lay your body down_  
>  — “Find the Cost of Freedom”, Crosby Stills Nash  & Young

* * *

_They made love the night before. Garrett held him close and soothed him with sweet nothings when he voiced his uncertainty. He’d have backed out of the meeting at the Hanged Man without his reassurance, and Fenris will wonder forever how much Garrett knew then._

_Had — had Varania contacted him somehow? Had Danarius?_

_How long had his lover been planning his betrayal?_

_Or was it on a whim? Did Fenris mean so little all along that even the most blatant of false promises swayed him?_

_Which would be, is, worse?_

_He revisits that day every night since his reawakening. Garrett at his side as they approach the then-unfamiliar elven woman. A flash of memory surfaces, just to be gone as quickly as it came. Garrett’s hand rests at the small of his back — another reassurance, or another subtle trap? He lets Fenris speak, lets Fenris draw his own conclusion from his sister’s darting eyes._

_It is too late. It always is._

_When Danarius’ voice drips like oil, like venom, into his ears for what he hopes is the last time, when the magister himself appears at the stairs… something shifts in Garrett Hawke. Something that, perhaps, has always been there, just hidden behind layers of lies, behind sweet nothings._

_Merrill protests. Perhaps that is her mistake, just as ever falling for Garrett Hawke is his._

_He hears later. He hears later, long after he escapes Tevinter. He left more bodies than he had bothered to count in his wake. Only two of them matter. Over in Kirkwall, later, many more lay on the cold stone of the Gallows, blood seeping into the cracks. What blood remains after Hawke uses it for his own power._

_He annuls the Circle himself, then dares the Templars he assisted to speak against his methods._

_From what Carver tells him, Meredith is the only one who approves, but even she sees a rival for her position. And Hawke slaughters her, while his once-friends and allies try to stay out of his way._

_He is surprised, then, to find Varric’s book paints such a mixed picture of the former Champion. Perhaps part of the dwarf still sees the struggling but charismatic refugee, and not the madman of a few short years later._

_Perhaps part of him does not want to admit that Garrett Hawke was never what he had seen then at all._

~o~O~o~

Behind him, the crowd is shouting. He can feel them pressing closer, but no one has made the mistake of trying to grab him yet — though whether this is out of fear for the mage’s life or the opposite he doesn’t know.

His focus is only on _him_.

_His_ breaths stutter as Fenris tightens his grip, both on the heart and on that long, aristocratic neck. Hands that had once been unsullied by any kind of work are now calloused enough for him to feel, and blunt, cracked nails rake down his arm in a blind panic. His face is rapidly turning purple, but those bright blue eyes look straight into his, wide with fear and an appeal to mercy that Fenris ignores.

He will decide on his own whether Caius deserves to live or die.

Fenris lets go of that neck to yank down his scarf, but loosens his hold on Caius’ heart only by a fraction. Enough to keep him from passing out immediately, though to be honest with himself it’s surprising he hasn’t already.

He is certainly more resilient than his twin in a similar situation. Fenris barely had to touch Colm’s heart to make him hysterical.

“Why are you here?” he growls. Behind him the Inquisitor is screaming obscenities, and from the sound of it, struggling against half of her own soldiers in an attempt to launch herself at him.

Caius coughs, blood bubbling from his mouth and dribbling down his chin. His hands still, then drop to his sides. “Irene… is my sister-in-law,” he says tightly.

“Oh? Where is your brother cowering now?”

Irene howls her fury, and Caius goes limp, letting his head drop back against the wall. “He is _dead_.” His eyelashes flutter — the pain is sapping his strength, though his heart beats as furiously as ever in Fenris’ palm.

Fenris frowns. That isn’t the answer he expects at all. Tevinter mages are like cockroaches — always popping up where you don’t want them, and difficult to kill. The only ones he is certain the world is rid of are Hadriana and Danarius, because he killed them himself.

“Fenris, why—” Caius turns his head away, coughing violently. More blood splatters the ground, darker than it should be. His heart shudders, and Fenris lets go entirely, withdrawing his hand so just the fingertips remain.

“You got my sister killed,” he snaps. He had been momentarily distracted, by Caius’ answer and by the man’s consideration in not coughing blood all over him, but now the rage returns in full force. It has been five years, but that was just time for the anger to boil.

Though he’s catching his breath and still dripping blood down his chin, Caius lifts his head enough to blink at him. “Varania—”

“Don’t. Say. Her. Name.”

“Ah—” He nods hastily. “I’m sorry. We never meant for that to happen, but she asked for our help so you could escape. She was a friend and— I’m sorry.” Despite the rushed words there’s no deceit in them. “Please.”

“Fenris…” Varric is carefully inching around from the side, hands up and voice pitched as if to soothe a spooked animal. “Fenris, come on buddy, let him down and let’s talk about this.”

He rolls his eyes but withdraws his hand entirely. Caius shudders, full-body, and slides down the wall in a heap. “You don’t know who he is, do you.” He raises his voice, turning to the Inquisitor, who still looks murderous through the layers of soot on her face. “None of you do! You have no idea what snake you have let in, _Inquisitor_.”

“I’m looking at him,” she snarls, but she stills in her efforts to break free and attack. Fenris had guessed half the army was holding her back, but it’s only two, and Carver standing in front of her as the last line of defense. “You should start talking _now_ , stranger,” she adds, attempting to sound intimidating, or maybe commanding for the benefit of her forces.

Fenris snorts in derision.

“You’d really better have an explanation or I am in a shitload of trouble,” Varric says lowly.

~o~O~o~

Within minutes they have reconvened in the keep, in a room that is clearly their command center. It isn’t quite made to fit this number of people, or this level of tension. In addition to himself, there’s also the three advisors, the Inquisitor, and a man introduced as her half-brother, Julien (one of the two holding her back before, along with Cullen). Varric is there, squashed into the corner with Carver, looking like he’d rather be packing his bags and fleeing while everyone’s distracted.

The Inquisitor has made an effort at scrubbing her face, but a streak of wet soot remains, rapidly drying, on her chin and neck. She stalks in behind everyone else, slamming the doors shut behind her. (The Ambassador winces and opens her mouth. Sister Nightingale shushes her with a hand on her arm.) She comes around the table, and plants herself firmly behind it, leaning over the markers and scattered papers. “You. Explain this,” she says with a voice trying to be steel, and instead wobbling with emotion.

Fenris scowls and crosses his arms. “As you may have guessed, Caius and I have history. He never told you the entire truth, did he? Only slaves are without surnames in the Imperium.”

“Get to the _point_.” But her mind is working, he can tell. And Julien has already figured it out. While the others are observing with varying degrees of neutral confusion, he stands by Irene’s side, body turned toward her as if to protect, but watching Fenris with growing understanding and horror.

The curtains are halfway drawn, the sunlight reduced to a single shaft that spills across the war table, across the Tevinter Imperium where all this began. The markers, clustered to the south in the Inquisition’s areas of operation, cast long shadows.

“That is Caius Danarius. His father once called himself my _master_.”

The elaboration isn’t strictly necessary for most of them; Varric and Carver already know the name well, as do Cullen and Leliana to a lesser degree. “Shit,” Varric whispers into the silence that follows.

The Inquisitor freezes, staring at him across the war table. Julien reaches, but stops himself before touching her.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she straightens.

“I told you to explain why you attacked my fucking brother-in-law in the middle of the courtyard—”

He bristles. “I—”

“Let me finish! I already knew his father was a magister. Colm told me they left Tevinter after helping a slave — you, I presume — kill dear old dad. Do you dispute this?”

Fenris clenches his teeth and pulls a deep breath. “No,” he grits out.

Rubbing her forehead, she shakes herself. “All right. What else can you tell me about your ‘history’, as you put it? I need to understand. There’s actually two people of Tevinter origin here that I know of.”

“Three, Inquisitor,” Sister Nightingale interjects. “That mercenary from yesterday is Soporati.”

She blinks. “Fuck. Nevermind. Three, then.”

“I am not going to attack a _Soporati_ ,” Fenris grumbles. “Or anyone else.” He catches Carver frowning at him, and adds, “Even Caius, if he is really as good a person as you believe.”

The Inquisitor narrows her eyes, scowl creasing deeper. For a moment he thinks she’s going to repeat the question he refuses to answer, but eventually she snorts indelicately. “Keep your secrets. Maker knows you’re in good company around here.”

“Irene—” Julien says lowly.

“I know.” She rubs at her mouth and chin, pauses, pulls her hand away and looks at it. The sootstain is worse, now. “Fine. I need to speak to my advisors privately. Julien, if you could check in on Caius…?”

Fenris rolls his eyes but is the first out the door. She’s not used to being a leader, clearly, or is more worried about the politics than he had assumed. On the one hand, he’s Varric’s guest and has come to the Inquisition for protection (more Carver’s idea than his, by far). On the other, letting him go now will send a message to the hundreds of people that were in the courtyard: Caius is fair game and even his own sister-in-law won’t protect him.

Hawke wouldn’t want or need advisors in the first place. The thought makes him scowl deeper.

~o~O~o~

Fenris stalks into the main hall, startling a few gathered nobles. They do not wait until he has passed to start whispering, but he ignores them, emerging into the bright spring sunshine. Patches of snow still linger in the shade, but the flowers over in the garden are budding, and even a few early risers have already bloomed. It is _still_ far too cold.

He cannot imagine being here in winter.

The clang of armor sounds behind him — Carver has caught up. Fenris starts down the stairs, slower now so the Templar doesn’t have to jog. If he wanted to he could easily lose anyone and everyone, regardless of his current mood. Carver, of all people, knows that.

The upper courtyard has only a few people about, standing in groups or hurrying from one building to another. No one is keen to confront or even look directly at him. Fenris has no real plan in mind, but he gravitates toward the battlements. He’s a stone’s throw from the stairs, right in front of the quiet-at-this-hour tavern, when the door opens.

A man stumbles out. Fenris sizes him up with practiced speed: dressed in an impractical but fashionable (for somewhere far warmer) garment with an impossible array of buckles and straps, unblemished skin, not a hair out of place on his head or in his mustache. A feat in itself, as he is also rather hungover. He clutches a staff in the hand that isn’t shading his eyes.

_Ah_. The second Tevinter national, and another mage. Fenris frowns and sidesteps before the other man can wobble right into him, and thus Carver is the one to catch his fall.

“Blighted dwarven ales…” he mumbles into Carver’s breastplate.

“Are you all right?”

Fenris rolls his eyes but says nothing. He doesn’t immediately recognize the mage, which is only slightly comforting. Danarius did throw parties following his recapture, but for a select few: his allies, such as they were, in the Magisterium. There were a great many more Altus sons that he didn’t meet, and Laetan — though the mage’s impeccable appearance, even while hungover, makes him suspect Altus breeding.

His skin prickles, and not just at how gently Carver is holding the mage’s arms in his gauntleted hands. Varania restored as much as she could, she’d said, but many things from before he’d been left behind on Seheron are patchy still, or like looking through stained glass. Like as not they did meet, at one of the more inclusive parties, and he simply cannot remember.

“Right as rain,” the mage says, voice a little clearer, drawing back a little as he finds his feet. “Not at all like I’ve been within a barrier of getting eaten by a dragon, thank you.”

_The Bone Pit, so aptly named, the scattered skeletons of miners and prey alike clattering as the high dragon lands before Hawke. The earth shakes; that and the wind from mighty wings knocks them back — Merrill tumbles into a long-dead deer along the Pit’s wall, nearly impaled by the rib-bones. Hawke leaps up so fast Fenris isn’t sure he’d fallen at all and unhooks his staff… the dragon’s eyes are hungry, head swaying gently, like a serpent’s about to strike…_

Fenris blinks and the memory dissipates into the cold spring sunlight. The man — the mage — is staring at Carver’s breastplate, swallowing thickly, and Carver lets him go.

He needs air. Fenris turns and takes the stairs to the battlements. Carver does not follow, perhaps sensing something. For all his obtuse attitude when Fenris had first met him, the younger Hawke brother is perspective when he needs to be, and plays stupid for the rest. It is this trait above all that has saved them from death more times than Fenris can count.

Fenris never met Bethany, but from Carver’s stories all three Hawke children had one thing in common: they were constantly underestimated. Whether and how they used this to their advantage was the difference.

Sometimes he wonders if Garrett, wherever he is, is still pretending benevolence.

And then he’s leaning over the battlements, his hair in his face, as the remains of his last meal leave him so forcefully it feels like his stomach itself is going to come out. It lasts far longer than it should, and by the time it’s over he’s dizzy, disheveled and exhausted down to his bones. He feels weak.

He _is_ weak. And that’s the worst part.

~o~O~o~

_Dorian Pavus_. They hadn’t met after his recapture, but now that he has a name to go with the face he remembers. A talented Altus who, despite his father’s exasperation, had no interest in even looking at the political ladder, much less climbing it. Later he had been apprenticed to Gereon Alexius, whom Danarius saw as so far beneath him he wasn’t worth the assassination.

Fenris recalls him as the subject of so many rumors it was hard to keep them straight, but the man himself had done nothing to control them, or, as Danarius would have done, turn them to his benefit. The few times he had been present at a soiree, Dorian had stayed at the edges, nursing a drink or sticking close to Alexius’ son Felix. The latter was always kind to slaves. Dorian, meanwhile, was not cruel, but for all his smooth talk and quick wit with his own kind, he was suddenly tongue-tied when confronted with anyone deemed lesser. If Felix snuck them food, Dorian was always there, a look of quiet panic on his face, insisting Felix was going to get into trouble. “I like trouble,” Felix would say every time, and Dorian would sigh, still not looking at the slaves, and guard the door.

It was by far one of the better ways he had been treated, and not the worst foot to start off on now, but that doesn’t mean Fenris isn’t watching him. Waiting.

The Chantry Mother — whom Fenris had pressed for information on the resident Tevinter nationals — tilts her head, studying him. Her hands are folded behind her back, the picture of serene grace, and Fenris is almost, almost tempted to fill the silence, to not make her wait for an explanation that he does not want to give.

He is surprised, then, when she doesn’t ask. Instead, in a soft Orlesian burr, she confides, “I received a letter from Dorian’s father.”


	12. Cullen II

> _For standin' in your heart_  
>  _Is where I want to be_  
>  _And long to be_  
>  _Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind_  
>  — “Catch the Wind”, Donovan

* * *

 Irene leaves again as soon as she makes her decision. It is a surprisingly even-handed one, and Cullen wonders how much of it is influenced by the advisors and how much of it is the hot-headed Inquisitor settling into her role. Fenris is to help build houses in the steadily-growing village beyond the fortress proper, and train the recruits under Cullen’s watch. The training he probably would have requested from Fenris regardless of the incident, as even without his lyrium-granted abilities the elf knows techniques that neither Cullen nor Rylen’s Templar training gave them.

And, of course, he has to avoid Caius at all costs. The latter asks for little else; the rest is added as a deterrent. Julien reports that he doesn’t even want an apology, private or otherwise. “He healed himself once the shock wore off,” Julien notes when he returns.

Irene tasks Cullen and Leliana with enforcing the sentence and reluctantly leaves for the Storm Coast. She may be gone for weeks to the distant shore, if all goes well. Varric all but begs to come along; Cassandra is itching for another, more private confrontation. Also along are Vivienne, whose presence Irene has all but ignored up to this point, and Blackwall. Irene seems to like the Warden, not even flinching when he calls her “my lady”.

Cullen doesn’t think it’ll go anywhere on Irene’s part, and he doesn’t have a claim to her anyway — so why does watching them ride out of Skyhold, chatting amicably, make his chest ache and his head hurt worse?

The withdrawals return with a vengeance, almost as bad as they were in the first few weeks of him stopping the lyrium. He has the compresses on hand day and night now, and he has to keep upping the dosage of his tonic. _It could be worse_ , he tells himself, and that is ultimately what keeps him going.

The advisors’ meetings continue in the war room, though they are mostly spent talking in circles, a test of stamina which he is doomed to fail. Leliana and Josephine are both adept at countering every single point he might make, the former seeming to delight in making him tongue-tied just for the sake of it. Without Irene, it takes so much longer to arrive at any decision.

* * *

Though he entered at mid-afternoon, it is past dusk by the time he leaves the keep, enough business done that the Inquisition won’t implode until the morrow. His headache is (relatively) gently pounding behind his eyes, and the need for a stiff drink overrides the need for solitude.

He pushes open the door to the tavern, and immediately his eyes are drawn to the bar. A crowd has gathered around, listening with rapt attention to the elf currently perched on the edge, strumming the strings of what looks like an oversized lute. Tacere has his face tilted toward the ceiling, haloed by the single lamp above him, eyes closed as he picks out a melody. It’s almost… reverential, and the people around him are oddly silent for how drunk they appear.

Cullen feels rather like he’s interrupted something, but then Tacere opens one amber eye and spots him. A slow grin spreads across his face, and he calls, “Do close the door, _mon lionceau_. Cabot’s still got plenty, don’t you worry.” This is followed by three sharp plucks of his instrument, and his eye slips shut again.

The dwarf in question appears at Cullen’s side, pressing a stein into his hand and muttering, “Elf’s crazy but he does have some good stories. And he keeps them drinking.” He closes the door behind Cullen and returns to the bar.

Having what he came for, and still wondering what has everyone mesmerized, Cullen slides into a seat in the dark corner closest to the door. He might as well keep an eye on Tacere. Something about him is off, something beyond his demeanor, beyond his Orlesian accent even. He realizes now that he doesn’t know even the barest details; it’s less than he knows about Dorian, whom Tacere came in with. Irene knows him, or knew him, but in the chaos no one could ask. And later… this is actually the first he’s seen of Tacere since arriving, though he must have been around. He seems the type to either be the center of attention or invisible, with no in-between.

“Gather ‘round, my darlings,” Tac trills into the silent bar. The crowd is still, perhaps holding their breaths. “This next one is not a tale told lightly. It is not even a tale, after all!” He plucks the instrument, lets the sound ring, and only as the note has nearly died does he begin an upbeat melody.

The words are not upbeat.

Cullen nearly chokes on his ale when Tac looks straight at him, the lamp lighting the top half of his face but casting the rest of it in shadow, and sings — in a voice deeper than he could have expected — of unrequited love.

He is frozen there, though it crosses his mind to stand up and demand something else, anything else. Or simply leave. But both of those would give him away, tell Tacere that his song is hitting home. He hides his mouth behind the stein and hopes the light is dim enough even an elf’s sharp eyes couldn’t spot his blush.

None of the other patrons are looking at him, at least. Small mercies.

It is an effort not to hunch over in his chair, to extend his legs comfortably, as if the song is not directed at him and only for him, sung straight into his soul, but merely a passtime, entertainment like any of Maryden’s songs. Where is she, anyway?

Blessedly, it’s not an epic. Tac reaches the end after three agonizing verses, finishing with a flourish and a wink at Cullen. The crowd applauds. With a lazy, self-satisfied smile, Tac stretches catlike and announces, “Well, my loves, it has been truly a _pleasure_ spending this time with you all, but I’m afraid I must depart. Do be safe out in the world.” He climbs atop the bar, takes a bow, waltzes to the end closest to the stairs, and hops off — straight into the arms of one of the plain-clothed scouts.

Cullen stands and is halfway towards him before he realizes what he’s doing. No, best to leave him alone, pretend nothing happened at all. Not even _the song_.

“Oh no darling, I really mustn’t,” Tac is saying. The drunken scout has him around the middle, booted feet off the floor, head buried in the elf’s neck. Tac laughs softly. “No.” He reaches up, puts his hands on the scout’s shoulders as if to steady himself.

The scout screams and falls back.

Tac drops gracefully. He turns on his heel and ascends the stairs with out a backward glance at the man writhing on the floor, scrabbling at his chest. When the scout pulls away his shirt there are rapidly-darkening bruises at the hollow of his collarbone, and bleeding, curved cuts where Tacere’s thumbnails pressed deep.

Cullen sighs. The other patrons are all far too drunk or leaving, and Cabot is just looking at him expectantly. He drains his ale and sets it on the counter. “My tab,” he says stiffly, and hauls the now-sobbing scout up to go see the healer.

* * *

A few days later he comes across the table set up in the gardens, and the day after that Dorian and Leliana are there, tossing casual barbs back and forth over a game that, he can tell immediately, Dorian is cheating at. The moment Leliana closes her eyes in mock-pain at something Dorian has said, both of them leaning casually back in their chairs, a pawn slides, untouched, into an adjacent spot.

Leliana says nothing. Cullen doesn’t doubt for a moment that she notices. Still, she throws the game, sighing when Dorian checkmates her. Then she taps her chin, looks up to where Cullen is observing, and smiles. “I’m afraid I must return to work, but if you have the time I’m sure the Commander would indulge a game.”

Dorian looks up too, and that is how Cullen finds himself, four wins later, holding back laughter at the mage’s increasingly desperate attempts to distract him. All the while they’ve been talking, and he’s discovered that Dorian would be a great chess player if only he would focus on something other than witty remarks. As it is, he relies on cheating. Cullen can easily deal with that. Mia taught him well, once he had beaten her the first time, how to circumvent less-than-honorable tactics.

The sun is warm on his face, he’s relaxed and loose, Dorian is good company — and he’s winning, which is good for something. He still has chess, if nothing else.

“Commander?”

Cullen looks up from the board, startled. It’s Julien, standing a short distance away (close enough that he wonders at how he hadn’t noticed the additional presence) with the kind of carefully masked expression that would have fooled him if he hadn’t known Leliana. “If we may speak a moment?”

The silted phrasing is what gives him away. A little seed of nausea sprouts in Cullen’s gut, but he nods slowly.

“I win then?” Dorian pipes up, flashing a brilliant smile.

With a roll of his eyes, Cullen reaches over and checkmates Dorian.

The mage squawks a protest, but it only takes a glance at the board before he concedes. “Fine. Don’t get smug — we’ll toast my victory next time.” He saunters past Julien, turning his head just so as he passes.

A moment stretches while Cullen waits expectantly, but Julien’s tracking Dorian’s exit in turn, the fake-neutral expression beginning to slip as his eyebrows slowly creep up his face.

The Inquisitor’s brother is recovering well. Color has returned to his skin, and his halfway-to-starvation look is completely gone. Also gone is the Templar armor, replaced by a simple tunic and breeches in the style of the Fereldan countryside. He’s shaved, too, since Cullen saw him last, and gotten a haircut.

Julien returns to himself, coughing into his fist and shooting Cullen an apologetic look.

“Do you play?” he asks, gesturing to the board in invitation.

“It’s been a long time, and I was never very good at it.” But he slides into the seat, watching the board curiously as Cullen returns the pieces to their starting positions. He picks up a pawn and studies the craftsmanship, and is still rubbing it like a good-luck charm when he asks, “How do you do it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Quitting. The Order, I mean.”

Cullen blinks, hand still hovering over the board he’d just finished setting up. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this. “Why do you want to quit?”

_A stupid question_ , he thinks, but Julien turns thoughtful, rolling the pawn back and forth in his hand. “It was never my choice, I suppose. Bann Trevelyan — well, my _father_ — forced so many of his bastards into the Order it’s a wonder I never met any others that I know of in my transfers. That alone might taint it, but then…” He looks down at the pawn in his hand, sighs heavily. “I thought I held no loyalty to it, because that would be _stupid_ , but I do. I had to make a choice, before, between staying and leaving. I couldn’t do it then. I hesitated and then my chance was gone. Now may well be too late, but I see you here, and I get thinking.”

Cullen nods, opens his mouth, but Julien isn’t done.

He looks up and catches Cullen’s gaze. The mask is off now, laying him bare, raw and vulnerable. “I skipped one dose of lyrium and the shakes got so bad I could barely hold the philter to take it again. Maybe—”

“How did you know I stopped?” It’s too loud, but he doesn’t care. The nausea is in full bloom now, roiling his gut. If Julien knows, who else figured it out? He will be the center of attention now — it won’t just be Cassandra monitoring him for madness.

Julien pauses, the pawn hanging loosely in his fingers. “You… you quit lyrium?” he asks quietly, eyes widening. “Blighted bollocks, man. How long?”

_Maker’s breath_. “Since Seeker Cassandra recruited me for the Inquisition.”

It takes but a moment for Julien to do the math. “Over a year, then. I had no idea.”

His panic abates a bit, but he has to will his nausea to settle.

“To be honest I’m not sure I have the will to quit,” Julien says. “But I have to try, or it _will_ be too late. Irene hasn’t said as much but I know she hates that I’m leashed to the Order like this. So, I’ll expand my question: How do you do it? Cutting ties, stopping lyrium?”

“I just… resolved not to take it again. All at once. It may not be the best way to do it, but it’s what I did. As for cutting ties, it became easier after the War started, I suppose. I was Knight-Commander in Kirkwall then, but the ranks kept dwindling as more and more Templars deserted. Soon enough there were so few of us left it was easy when Seeker Cassandra came. Hawke had already Annulled the Circle, so we had hardly any mages left to guard, either.” He still hears their screams in the quiet — children engulfed in the flames Hawke himself had summoned, their blood used to slaughter those mages who fought back. Small bodies twisted like macabre puppets.

The Order, along with every other sin, had allowed Garrett Hawke to live. They had known long before the Annulment that the hardworking, charismatic refugee was no more; Carver told them this himself. Even after he had joined he kept watch over his big brother, and over the years he spoke of crueler and crueler behavior. Finally, after Fenris was sold back to Danarius — a Tevinter magister in Kirkwall! Right under their noses! — Carver came to him, and spoke of the stranger in his brother’s skin with regret but also steely determination: the Champion of Kirkwall had to be stopped.

But while Garrett was a known apostate, Meredith said he had committed no other crime, and that the political balance was delicate. Garrett was still as charming as ever despite the venom beneath. The people he had helped for years would riot, and that would destroy Meredith’s control over Kirkwall worse than any one apostate ever could. Or so they believed.

“Thank you,” Julien says, cutting into Cullen’s musings. He sets the pawn down, leans back in his chair. “It’s really now or never, I guess. It’ll be better in the long run. I’ve been all over Thedas since joining the Order and I’ve only ever seen one Templar past the age of fifty. They must exist, but it’s like they’re being hidden or something.”

“Knight-Commander Greagoir of Kinloch Hold was in his fifties,” Cullen says quietly, “and there was talk of him being ‘encouraged’ to retire. He died shortly after the archdemon was defeated, though I don’t know the cause.”

Julien nods, frowning. “So they retire, and then what?” he mumbles, staring off to the side.

It’s not directed at him, but Cullen shakes his head anyway. The best case, of course, is moving to the countryside, but the more he thinks about the logistics of that the less he wants to think about it. Where would they get a steady supply of lyrium? The Chantry? Do they die alone, in the wilderness, out of their minds? Or on city streets, as beggars?

“Ugh, that’s enough of that. There was something else,” Julien says, shaking himself. “Now, I’m not the kind of guy to give shovel talks, Maker knows I’m not my sister’s keeper. But what exactly are you doing?”

“I… I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Julien levels him with an unamused look, and Cullen can feel the blood rushing to his head, most particularly his cheeks. “Really.”

Cullen eyes the exit to their secluded area, wondering how quickly he can make excuses and run, but Julien just rolls his eyes.

“I said it wasn’t a shovel talk! Look. She’s a smart woman, surely she’s noticed too. And it’s ultimately her choice as to what to do about it, if anything. Just— don’t be surprised if she doesn’t reciprocate for a long time, or ever. Irene loved Colm with everything she had. I never met the man, but she thought the world of him. Her letters were proof enough of that. It takes a long time for that kind of wound to heal, certainly more than a few months. If you want to get in her good graces, ask her about him.”

Cullen finally looks the other man in the face, just to raise a disbelieving eyebrow.

Julien _laughs_. “Yes, that’s what I said. Ask her about him. Everyone’s concerned about how his death affects her performance as Inquisitor, but it’s up to you to show that you actually care about her as a person, not just a leader or an object of worship. And Irene — the woman — is never going to accept a man who wants her to forget about Colm.”

“I don’t!” he says quickly, then swallows. “That is, I certainly worry about the weight of her grief, but I would never want her to just forget him. He was an important part of her life.” His tongue isn’t equipped to parse through the jumble of thoughts in his head, but he’s moderately proud of how calm he sounds compared to how he feels. _Grief isn’t something that should just be… taken away_ , he thinks, _with all the happy times along for the ride_.

The memory rises, sharp and fast, to his mind: the dark-haired elven girl, with the sweetest heart-shaped face that should have, would have shown shy smiles or, better, laughter — tears streaming down that lovely face as the other Templars hold her down and Greagoir approaches. “You have been granted a mercy, Vera Surana,” he intones, even as her breaths hitch and her eyes roll back in her head from terror—

The Tranquil girl who had once been the light of Kinloch Hold, who had once been _his Vera_ , survived Uldred’s massacre, but she did not survive the Hero of Ferelden. After the tower was reclaimed Fern Tabris had asked to speak with her, alone, and Greagoir allowed the unusual request. When Fern came back, wiping her daggers clean, she’d answered their shock and outrage with the calm of a born killer. “ _I have granted her the mercy no one else would, shem_.”

Sometimes, in the quiet, he remembers Fern Tabris — who had killed nearly as many on her journey as she had saved in the end if the rumors held truth. He wonders where she is, and what might have happened if they’d recruited her, as they had planned.

He wonders if her blades would’ve ever stopped dripping blood.

Then, he remembers what she’d said, and he wonders if she hadn’t been right all along.


End file.
